


The Reality of Everything

by marbletopempire



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Queer Character, Character Study, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, M/M, POV Alternating, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Play, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 87,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marbletopempire/pseuds/marbletopempire
Summary: The famous Italian short story 'La Realtà di Tutto' is the tragic tale of two men who fall in love in the rolling hills of Calabria and are then separated by forces beyond their control. Nicolo di Genova- one of the few openly gay actors in cinema - has spent years trying to adapt it into a film, and he has assembled the best in the business to help him shepherd the film to success. There's only one thing missing just weeks from day one of shooting: the other leading man.When Joseph Al-Kaysani - a moderately successful comedian - is cast in what Variety calls, 'the most hotly anticipated film on Netflix's docket,' and what industry insiders call, 'that gay mafia movie,' it's a complete surprise.  Joseph is best known for his unflinchingly honest storytelling style, but there's one thing he's never shared with his audience or his family - he is gay.But Joe isn't the only one with secrets._______________Inspired by a KinkMeme prompt.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 1495
Kudos: 1072





	1. La Realtà di Tutto

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a modern AU really isn't where I thought I'd go next with these characters, but [this kink meme prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/6403.html?thread=2250755#cmt2250755) was too good to pass up.
> 
> Porn with Feelings is very much my wheelhouse, so that's the most relevant tag to mind. We'll get there. 
> 
> Will be updated once or twice a week, because, well, pandemic.
> 
> As ever, if you enjoy - and I hope you do - please drop a comment or a kudos!

> From: Sebastien Le Livre
> 
> To: Nicolo di Genova
> 
> Cc: Andy Scythia
> 
> Bcc: Quynh Tran
> 
> Subject line: Check this guy out – Joseph Al- Kaysani
> 
> Hey Nicky & Andy,
> 
> Hope things are going well for the both of you. Wanted to give you a quick update on casting for ROE. Think we found our Dante. Attached is his third audition – you know the scene. Let me know your thoughts.
> 
> As ever, your obedient servant,
> 
> Booker

Attached to the email was a file called JAK – 15/10/21.mov.

Nico sighed and pulled a cigarette from the pack at his side. He cast his eyes up to the ancient wood ceiling of his new flat and told himself that he really shouldn’t smoke inside, but it was a half-hearted reminder at best. On his good days it would be an uphill battle, but today was not a good day, and besides, he was fucking tired of watching audition tapes for Dante. Booker hadn’t come close, yet. He needed the calm. He lit the end, inhaled deeply, and pressed play.

The video was absolute shit quality – why they couldn’t spring for slightly better cameras for auditions, he would never understand – but Nico still immediately concluded that Booker had missed the mark, _again_. The man – Joseph – looked handsome enough, which was all well and good, but mainly, he seemed _nervous_. Dante was many things; nervous should never be one of them.

“All right, whenever you’re ready,” came a voice from off screen. The camera was zeroed in tight from Joseph’s chest up to just above the top of his tightly curled black hair, so it caught him sliding into character; his shoulders rolling back and his features rearranging themselves into something new. Harder.

“You think I’m scared of you still, don’t you?” There was a pause _._ His voice was gentler than Nico had expected, but his tone carried a combination of defiant and pissed off. Suddenly, he seemed confident. Cocky, almost. _Good voice_ , Nico thought, before Joseph continued. “Well, I’m not. Not anymore.”

“No?” asked the casting assistant flatly off screen.

He nodded, no. He seemed…menacing, now. _Interesting_.

“No. I think you’re completely full of shit.” His eyes narrowed as if thinking things through, and he licked his lips. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know.” He paused, and his eyes softened infinitesimally. “I _know_ , Geno.”

“Know what?”

His head jerked up, and his now furious eyes bore into whomever’s laid behind the camera. “Oh come _on_ , Geno. No more games! I’m fucking tired of it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dante.”

His back straightened with the speed of a snake about to strike. “Bullshit,” he said with deadly seriousness.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are.” He took a deep breath and his nostrils flared, but he seemed to calm. “I’ll ask one more time, as clearly as I can, and then never again – do you understand? Never again.” He gritted his teeth and rubbed at his temple before dropping his arm back to his side, frustration in every movement. “Do you want me?” There was another pause. If this were the film, the camera would be on Nico’s face, tracing his reaction to the bluntly worded question. “ _Do you want me?_ ” he asked again, more urgently this time. His eyebrows raised in the middle, and his eyes gentled and now he was plaintive, waiting on the answer. His voice was soft and shot through with yearning when he continued. “It’s a simple yes or no question, Geno, and it’s the last time I ask.”

There was a heavy pause, and then from behind the camera came, “Cut. Nicely done, Joe.”

Suddenly the man on screen was a different person. He grinned and a dimple pulled in tight in his right cheek. “Yeah?” he asked hopefully, and then the video cut to black.

Nico frowned, considering his reaction to the tape.

It had been…good. The man had been expressive, but not overly so, and had handled the nuance required of the scene believably, especially considering the shittiness of the audition environment. Acting against a completely wooden casting assistant, no props or emotional cues, the stress, etc., etc.

He quickly ran a search for Joseph Al-Kaysani. Thirty-five, American, six feet, with about a dozen credits to his name, mainly on Netflix, including a stand up special from a few years back that had apparently made some sort of a splash. In a still from the show, Joseph stood grinning on a mostly empty stage with what looked like an easel set up next to him, and he had on a backwards baseball cap. Nico grimaced. _So,_ Nico thought, _he’s straight._

A straight comedian. A straight, American comedian. A straight American comedian playing one of the most famous queer characters from twentieth century European literature. No, that wouldn’t work at all. The internet would have both of their heads on a platter.

He hit reply just as a response from Andy came in.

> From: Andy Scythia
> 
> To: Nicolo di Genova
> 
> Subject line: Fwd: Re: Check this guy out – Joseph Al- Kaysani
> 
> Nico. _I love this guy._ His eyes are perfect for Dante. Soulful, deep, maybe hiding some secrets? It's some good shit. Most promising so far, I think. Thoughts?
> 
> BTW, truthfully, I’ve seen his other audition tapes and they’ve been great too. Just wanted Book to send the best one. But trust me, this is our guy.
> 
> -Andy

Shit. He took another drag from his cigarette. Another email pinged in.

> From: Quynh Tran
> 
> To: Nicolo di Genova, Andy Scythia
> 
> Cc: Sebastian Le Livre
> 
> Subject line: Joseph Al- Kaysani
> 
> To my dearest executive producer dream team,
> 
> Please tell me you like Joseph. He’s perfect. He’s fucking handsome as hell, he’s got some solid hipster cultural cache (google him), he’s a Netflix man (and you know how they like pulling from their little pool), he doesn’t work very consistently, so he’d be cheap, and most importantly, _I am fucking tired of waiting for you to make a decision on this._ We are weeks away from shooting. Sort it out.
> 
> Love you,
> 
> xoxo,
> 
> Quynh

_Perfect_ , he thought with irritation. The casting director, the actual director and his partner all loved him.

The bells from the Trinità dei Monti began to ring as he turned his attention to the disaster that was his living room. There were boxes everywhere, furniture covered in sheets, just a handful of usable items unpacked. He’d bought this place for its location, the amount of natural light – a _lot_ for central Rome - and what he’d been assured would be minor renovations. Buying a home in Italy always meant atoning for the sins of the previous owners though, and now that a complete rewiring was finished, there was just the little issue of the pipes needing to be replaced. He’d technically moved in a month ago, but it certainly didn’t look like it.

 _A fucking Netflix guy_ , he thought, setting aside his laptop and grabbing his cigarettes and an ashtray. He posted up at the corner window. _An unknown would be better. This needs to be perfect._

This film was his baby. He’d _fought_ to have it made. Negotiated for the rights to the story, taken a first pass at the script, called in every favor he could for the right crew to be in the right places at the right time. He wanted it to be available to as wide an audience as possible, so he left Italy and went to America, where he had wined and dined and charmed every studio exec in LA who would take his call. They had all passed on it. Too European, they had said, whatever the fuck that even meant. Nico was reasonably sure they just meant ‘too gay’.

He sighed and flicked the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray at the sill. He idly watched a group of youngish women take a selfie in front of the massive wrought iron gate at the entrance to the building across the street. Their breath clouded the air when they said, “Roma!” with cheesy smiles and peace signs.

It’d been Andy who suggested they take it to Netflix. _Quit being such a fucking Italian snob, Genova, they have the deepest pockets in Hollywood,_ she'd said _. And they give_ no notes. _None?_ Nico had asked. She shook her head. _None._

And of course Andy had been right. Baumbach, Scorsese, Soderbergh, Fincher; they’d all taken their ideas to Netflix, gotten _no notes_ , and made exactly what they wanted. It was the right move, creatively. _But still_ , Nico’s snobbish Italian head reminded him, _they also gave untold millions to Adam Sandler._

He stubbed out the cigarette and pulled up the audition tape on his phone, eyes not moving from the man’s face as he went from nervous to confident to menacing to gentle, all in the space of a few short minutes.

He _was_ handsome, Quynh was right about that. It wouldn’t be a hardship to pretend to fall in love with him.

And yet…Nico wanted _perfection_ in this film. ‘The Reality of Everything’ was important to him, which was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

He’d been a skinny teenager, bored out of his mind one summer, digging through the attic at the home when he’d found the story. He remembered curling up in the window seat and thumbing through the slim little collection of short stories by someone named Pier Tasso, becoming increasingly intrigued by the sparse yet lyrical writing style, until he came to the middle of the book, where the story lay hidden. It was short – no more than eighty pages – but it had captured his…well, officially he would say his imagination, but specifically it was his libido. The story, about the doomed love affair between a member of the mafia and the person he’s tasked with keeping captive for ransom in the hills of Calabria, had been…it had been illuminating to say the least. Truthfully, it had probably informed some aspects of his sexuality more than he’d ever realized it would, when he’d read it those decades ago. He thought of the box under his bed.

But besides his personal attachment to the story, there was also the matter of its cultural importance. In the decades since its release, and especially with the death of its author from AIDS in ‘91, it had become a touchstone of queer European literature. It was on the syllabus in an Italian literature class at his university.

And how many other confused boys like him had read it and recognized, _finally_ , that there were people like them?

So, it had to be perfect, and it had to be perfectly cast. Nico knew that he would be able to handle Geno the way he deserved, would be able to breath life into the character that had only ever existed on the page for millions of readers. Was some American stand up with no dramatic parts to his name _really_ the right choice for Dante? No.

 _Fuck, maybe I am turning into an Italian snob_.

His email pinged again.

> From: Andy Scythia
> 
> To: Nicolo di Genova
> 
> Subject line: Fwd: Re: Check this guy out – Joseph Al- Kaysani
> 
> Quynh is going to murder us, and when she pulls out the knife, I’m going to tell her that you’re the one dragging your feet on this. I _will_ throw you under the bus, my friend. We’ve seen so many viable candidates, and you’ve passed on every one. Tell me you like him.
> 
> -Andy

He felt a headache coming on. He rubbed at his forehead. He had to admit that Joseph had been good. Really, he was the best he’d seen, so far, and everyone else was on board. _Filmmaking is a team sport_ , he reminded himself, lighting up another cigarette. _Fuck it,_ he thought. He hit reply to Booker’s original message.

> From: Nicolo di Genova
> 
> To: Andy Scythia, Sebastien Le Livre, Quynh Tran
> 
> Subject line: Re: Check this guy out – Joseph Al- Kaysani
> 
> Team,
> 
> First, I would like to note for the record that I have some _valid_ and _legitimate_ concerns about casting Joseph.
> 
> They are as follows:
> 
>   * He is a completely green dramatic actor.
>   * He is not queer. I know we’re casting blind on all parts, but I worry that having a straight man taking the role of a character who is very famously _not_ , will be seen in a negative light, and will cause undue stress during promotion, as well as take a part away from an _actually queer_ actor who could use the work. Andy and I understand this frustration keenly.
>   * He’s American.
> 

> 
> Having said all of that, I have to admit that it was a good audition, and we are getting too close to production. Let’s bring him in for a chemistry test.
> 
> -Nico
> 
> p.s. Booker, for the thousandth time, please call me Nico or Nicolo.

He pressed send. He had just enough time to think _I hope this isn’t a huge mistake_ before his inbox pinged again.

> From: Sebastien Le Livre
> 
> To: Andy Scythia, Quynh Tran, Nicolo di Genova
> 
> Subject line: Re: Check this guy out – Joseph Al- Kaysani
> 
> Duly noted, _Nicky._ I’ll set it up.
> 
> _-_ Book

Nico sat back and smirked at the response. _Cheeky shit._ He pulled up the audition tape again. About five seconds in, he thought, _he really does have nice eyes._


	2. The Honest American

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all of the positive feedback so far!! Every comment and kudos is Literally the Best. Can't tell you how much I appreciate it. 
> 
> Now, let's meet our other leading man. Hope you enjoy.

Joe cracked open his fifth – sixth? – beer of the afternoon, and wondered vaguely if he was more drunk, or more stoned. He wasn’t _drunk_ drunk, he knew that much, and he still remembered everything he’d done for the past hour, so it was a bit of a toss up. He took a sip of his IPA.

With the combination of his religious background – his parent’s religious background, really – the fact that he was a first-generation Muslim immigrant - with all _that_ fucking entailed – and his near constant work, he never tended to turn to the bottle or to drugs in times of stress. Intoxicants were for celebration, for getting a little too wild at a friend’s birthday party, for an occasional misguided tequila shot at a wedding. Never for solace, not really. And stand up was stressful as _fuck,_ not to put too fine a point on it, so if he hadn’t turned to booze or drugs to deal with life before, then what could have made him turn to it now?

Rationale, thy name was Matt. He was, it had turned out, a fucking prick, though when he’d come home Friday night, high off of the energy of a great set, the last thing he’d expected to see was Matt literally fucking a prick. His immediate reactionary rage at the betrayal was quickly superseded by an odd calm when he’d asked himself if he’d ever even really _liked_ Matt that much and wasn’t too surprised by the answer: not really. It allowed him to say, _excuse me? Can you two please leave?_ in a way that, honestly, would have made his mother proud. He politely ushered them out the door and politely closed it behind his erstwhile boyfriend of seven months, and then politely sat on the couch and stared into the middle distance, in the dark, for about thirty minutes.

So, Friday night hadn’t been great, but it wasn’t solely the cheating that had caused him to hole up in his place for the entirety of that Saturday, drinking and taking hits from his rarely used pipe, ignoring Matt’s phone calls and playing Horizon: Zero Dawn. It was the fact that he’d auditioned three times for the role of his life, and he needed to distract himself, because if he didn’t hear back on it soon, he might just die from the anxiety.

When his agent had handed him the audition script for _The Reality of Everything_ and said casually, “You said you wanted more dramatic roles,” he’d hardly been able to believe it.

“They’re casting blind?”

Nile had laughed at the expression on his face. “Yeah, man, they’re auditioning anyone. I’m guessing you know the story?”

“I do.”

“Well, good luck to you, then. It’s definitely more highbrow than your usual.”

He’d gone home and reread the original story maybe ten times before his audition, which had gone shockingly well. The second one had too. By the third, his anxiety about actually getting the part had become so ever present that it was basically a part of him. Like his beard, he _could_ get rid of it, but why put in the effort? He’d just gotten so used to having it around. Kind of like Matt, too, come to think of it.

He sat on the couch and took another hit from the bowl just as his phone rang. _Nile_. In his rush to answer in time he sucked in a huge cloud of smoke and then coughed it out. _Shit,_ he thought, _I guess we’re about to find out how good of an actor I am, because I’m about to be_ very _high_.

He picked up.

“Yo,” he said, aiming for casual and definitely-not-high, and mainly hitting the mark. He really was a good actor.

“Yo,” she responded. “So. Are you sitting down?”

 _I am becoming part of the couch,_ he thought but did not say. Instead he said, “I am.”

“Good. They want you back in again, for Dante.”

There was a moment’s silence as Joe’s foggy brain comprehended the words, and then he raised his fist slowly and victoriously into the air.

“And you’re still sitting down, right?”

“I am.”

“Okay.” She paused for a long enough time that Joe – because time felt like it was really slowing down now - had the time to think, _she is going to tell me something really fucking wild, now._ “It’s a chemistry test. With Nicolo di Genova. In Italy.”

 _Who_? he thought. “Who?” he said. Whoops.

“Joe! You don’t know who he is? He’s a big deal in Europe, man. Did you ever see Blood & Sand? Came out like ten years ago?”

Joe racked his brains. Blood and Sand, blood and sand…wasn’t that a cocktail at Ladybird downtown? _Man, I need to go there again, that was a great cocktail._ “No?” he finally said.

“Well, he was in that. Won a ton of awards overseas. Look him up, you philistine.”

“Jesus, Nile, philistine? I’m famously clever, and you _know_ that.”

“That’s what you fucking are, man!” She laughed so that Joe could tell there was no heat in her words. They’d known each other for too long, and he was too stoned, to take it seriously, anyways. “It’s a good movie,” she continued, “and Nicolo di Genova is dreamy as hell in it. Honestly I’m surprised you don’t know who he is; he is, like, _just_ your type.”

 _Dreamy as hell,_ he thought, dreamily. Fuck, he wished he hadn’t taken that hit.

“Wait. Did you say Italy?”

“I did.” He could hear her smile over the phone. “It’ll be filmed in Italy. Production offices are in Rome. They’re flying you over there for the test, Joe.”

“Holy shit.” _I am being flown to Rome to do a chemistry test. Holy shit._

“Yes.”

“I…holy shit.”

“Yes, correct.”

He started laughing, and Nile started laughing, and it was, he thought, perhaps the happiest he’d been in years. The weed was probably helping with that, though.

* * *

That night, after the drugs and alcohol had worn off and his blood was back to being more hemoglobin than intoxicant, he sat back down on the couch and searched ‘Nicolo di Genova’ on his phone. Thirty-four, Italian, five foot eleven, openly gay. Joe raised his eyebrows at that. _An out Italian actor? Aren’t they supposed to be, like, super into the machismo bullshit over there?_

He clicked to images, and was immediately perplexed. Nile had said he was just Joe’s type – that he was ‘dreamy as hell’ - but this man threw some wildly mixed signals to his brain. _Was_ he hot? He had a strong jawline and good lips, but his nose was somewhat large and he looked like he needed a very long nap in about seventy percent of the images. Plus he was working a deeply European skeezy-hot kind of vibe that had never worked for Joe – Nicolo di Genova always seemed to have some combination of earrings, mustache or long hair. If he was honest, his loathsome ex Matt might actually be better looking.

His eyes were fucking gorgeous though, he’d give Nile that. _It’d be tough to get that color right in a painting,_ he thought. _Charcoal might be easiest for his face, just skip trying to figure out what that color is entirely_. His fingers itched to sketch him but he dismissed it immediately. Way too creepy to lovingly draw the face of the guy he might be working with soon.

So instead, and per Nile’s recommendation, he rented _Blood and Sand_ on Amazon. Apparently it was one of those slice-of-life biopics, and this one focused on Rudolph Valentino’s time making the titular movie in the twenties, with Nicolo di Genova playing the Latin Lover himself. _Sounds interesting enough,_ he thought, pressing play and settling in.

* * *

Some thirty minutes later, Joe thought, _thank God for European cinema._ It had gone completely dark in his apartment, just the streetlights on Olive St. shining through his windows, and he was watching Nicolo di Genova in a full-on gay sex scene, the likes of which he had legitimately never seen in American film. He thought of Brokeback Mountain, but dismissed it. Those cowboys never seemed to find any joy in the act. This…this showed joy. This was hot.

The camera showed Nicolo as Rudolph on his knees between the spread legs of his lover, a predatory gleam and wildness in his wide eyes, a smirk on his mouth, and another man's hands sliding into his slicked back hair. Clever editing and decency laws kept Joe’s greedy eyes from actually seeing what he imagined, which was Nicolo’s swollen lips lavishing the other man’s cock. It would feel fucking good; he really did have great lips…

 _Fuck, this is too weird._ He pressed pause. The movie stopped on a shot of Nicolo’s eyes closed with pleasure.

“Dammit.” He fast-forwarded and paused it again at a point that wasn’t an erotic still of his maybe-soon-to-be colleague. He smoothed his hands down his thighs, absently noting that he was slightly hard, and looked over to where the script for _The Reality of Everything_ innocently sat on his coffee table.

The short story had been somewhat vague about the actual sex acts that took place – more Kate Chopin than Anaïs Nin, on the scale of sex in classic literature – but in the translation from page to film, they had become far more explicit. More explicit than any mainstream American film he could think of since, like, the nineties. He looked back to the screen, which was paused on Nicolo di Genova’s face as he lounged post-coitally.

 _If I get this part, I’ll have to act out sex with a man,_ he thought. It was something he’d briefly fretted over before his first audition but had dismissed quickly; the idea that he might actually get the part being so far-fetched that it was very much a ‘cross that bridge when I come to it’ problem. But now, the bridge was here; or, at least, it was a hell of a lot closer.

How could he do it? A sex scene with a woman could possibly and quite literally kill his parents, but a sex scene with a _man_? An _entire movie_ where he acted out love and lust _for a man_? He thought their mortification and disappointment might be so much that after they died, they would, through sheer force of will, rise from the grave to haunt him for the rest of his life. “Why can’t you fiiiind a good woooman,” his mother would moan spookily, and “if you’d become a doctor, this never would have haaaappened,” his father would wail.

He smirked, temporarily distracted– there was the germ of a good bit, in that. Of course, he would have to acknowledge that he was gay to the audience, in order to run with it, which he had never done. _What a liar I am,_ he thought.

When asked the secret to his success – why a stand up routine about being The Brown Kid in the American South – had done so well amongst practically every (liberal) demographic, he’d always said that experiential honesty was universal: here is my honest truth about what happened, and _exactly_ how that made me feel. That was why people identified so strongly with _Muhammad in Suburbia,_ he claimed: it was just honesty. Critics – a lot of critics – had agreed with him. That was probably why he’d never had so successful a routine since then: every time he stood on that stage and talked about his life, he lied.

Joe sighed deeply, physically feeling the angst of secrecy and the weight of parental disappointment, and then let it go with his breath.

He still had at least one more audition. He might get to Rome and have a terrible test and they would send him packing, and he would never have to find out exactly how his parents would choose to murder him. Might never happen at all.

He pressed play again on the movie.

He’d cross that bridge if he came to it.

* * *

He dropped his bag on the bed at the hotel and took in his surroundings. _Nice place_ , he thought, succinctly. They’d put him up in a spot near the Spanish Steps; a boutique hotel that mixed time periods in the decorating style with solid results: an Eames chair here, a French banquet there, modern gold light fixtures, and a portrait of someone’s ancestor wearing a deeply silly white wig above the bed. It was also bathed in light. He went to the window and peeked out from behind the curtains. Not much of a view – it looked directly into the walls of a pink building across the alley – but still. He dropped the sash and looked back into the room. Not bad at all.

 _If nothing else comes of this trip, I will have at least gotten a free trip to Italy_ , he thought. He told himself that it would be enough.

* * *

The audition was held the next day in a large room on the third floor of an old building in the Prati district. Like every other room in Rome, it had soaring ceilings and huge windows that allowed sunlight to pour through; unlike every other room in Rome, this one had a half dozen people who all held his fate in the palm of his hand. They turned as he entered. He waved, awkwardly.

They were all very tall, and very glamorous, and Joe, who was tall but not especially glamorous, felt _American_ in a way he hadn’t in…well, maybe ever.

A woman wearing all black strode over to him on confident feet. She had short black hair, some of the highest cheekbones he’d ever seen on someone who wasn’t actively modeling clothes, and startlingly blue eyes _._ She put out her hand and smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. “Hey, Joseph. I’m Andy, one of the execs on the film. It’s great to meet you.”

“You can call me Joe,” he responded, shaking her hand. “It’s great to meet you too.”

Andy turned around abruptly and started walking back to the group, introductions apparently done. It took Joe a moment to realize he should be following her.

“I’ll intro you to everyone,” she said over her shoulder as he jogged to catch up. “We’ve kept it small today. The main goal is to meet you and get a feel for you as a person, and to run through those pages with Nicky.”

“Nicky?” he asked, moving quicker to keep up with her. She was almost as tall as him and she walked _fast_.

She laughed. “Oh shit, forget I said that. _Nico._ Nicolo di Genova. He’ll be playing Geno.” She cut a glance at him as if letting him in on a secret and lowered her voice slightly. “He hates Nicky.”

They arrived at the group, and Andy introduced him to everyone. There was Quynh Tran; director – impossibly elegant in a red trench – Sebastien Le Livre; casting director – quite good looking, if slightly rumpled – James Copley; Netflix exec, Lead on European Production – dapper as fuck – and, then, finally, Nicolo di Genova; actor, co-executive producer.

Confronted with those same dreamy eyes he’d mused over just a few short days ago in his apartment in L.A., Joe suddenly and rather helplessly agreed with Nile that Nicolo di Genova was ‘just his type’, but probably not for any reasons she might have thought. He was the same symmetrical, thick-featured man from the pictures - though, blessedly, relatively clean shaven and without any earrings - but it wasn't his looks that made attraction rush through him. It was his smile: small, a little secretive, shy. Like laughing wasn't something he did often. Joe had always been a sucker for the quiet types – opposites attract and all that – and if Nicolo wasn’t his maybe soon-to-be-colleague, he would have made it his personal goal of however long it took, to get him to smile as wide as possible, and maybe even laugh.

Of course, they were maybe soon-to-be-colleagues, so when they shook hands, Joe just tried to ignore the potent desire that buzzed under his skin at the touch. _Be a professional,_ he told himself. _Use it in the scene._

“So, Mr. Al-Kaysani –“ began James.

“Joe. You can call me Joe,” he interrupted. Inwardly he grimaced. _Maybe don’t interrupt the Lead on European Production for Netflix, good lord, Joe._

James smiled and inclined his head in acquiescence. “Joe, then. Are you enjoying your stay so far?”

“I am. The hotel is beautiful, thanks for putting me up there. And for bringing me here, generally.”

“Have you been to Rome before?” asked Quynh.

“I have, but it’s been a long time. I was eighteen, last time. Did that classic American thing of backpacking through Europe before college.”

He felt Nicolo’s ridiculous eyes on him and the cool gaze – way too assessing – made him feel almost lightheaded. _Shit, I haven’t felt like this since I_ was _that fucking teenager._ He fought the urge to squirm under the look, and glanced everywhere except for back at him.

“I did that too,” said Andy.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smirked. “Had _way_ too much fun.”

“Oh sure, but that’s what those trips are for. Being young and stupid. I spent a week wandering around Amsterdam out of my mind on mushrooms. If you don’t do it then, when do you do it?”

The group froze slightly and Joe realized that he’d just casually mentioned drug use in what was essentially an interview. _Jesus fucking Christ, Allah, Buddha, and whoever else is listening, I know you probably don’t take my calls anymore, but help me shut my stupid mouth. Also, please make Nicolo di Genova stop looking at me because I’m pretty sure he is scrambling my brain._

Nicolo broke the silence with a soft exhalation and a tight smile. “This is what I like about you Americans. So honest.”

“Maybe too honest,” Joe conceded, grinning bashfully. “I apologize,” he said to the group, “I spend most of my time around other comedians. Watching my mouth is the exact opposite of what I usually do, both personally and professionally. I promise I’m capable of it, though.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” said Sebastien, clapping a hand to his shoulder as if they were old friends. “Between the five of us, there probably isn’t a drug we haven’t tried.” Everyone except Copley basically shrugged his or her shoulders as if to say, _yeah, he’s right_.

“Ah, well…good.”

Sebastien turned to the camera that was set up behind a ring of plastic Ikea chairs.

“Shall we get to it?” he asked the group. They all nodded and began to move towards the seats, which were arranged to face an old wooden table set between two more plastic chairs.

“We have some rope, Joe, if you’d like it?” asked Andy. Dante’s wrists would be tied in the scene. When he’d rehearsed he’d just kept his arms crossed, but actual rope would definitely help.

“Yeah, I would, thank you.”

“You got it.” Andy rummaged around in a box under a table at the wall and held the rope up triumphantly when she found it. She looped it around his wrists where he held them in front of his chest, efficiently tying a knot that meant Joe really couldn’t separate his hands. _She’s done this before,_ he thought. She smirked at him as if she knew his line of thinking. “All good?”

“Yeah,” he said. She returned to her chair and Joe turned to the table where Nicolo sat with his back to him, waiting.

Suddenly, Joe was incredibly, _ridiculously_ nervous. This was it. He reminded himself that he’d prepared this scene a thousand times, that he knew it backwards and forwards and had blocked out every movement, and, as it conveniently turned out, he was stupidly attracted to the person his character was trying to seduce. _Use it_ , he told himself. _It’s a chemistry test_. _Everything you’re about to say, you’d like to actually do to him. Show him how you want him, hopefully he reacts in the right ways, and then you can retreat back into yourself, and to safety._ Nico – Geno – had practically no lines in this; it was all about his reactions to Dante’s actions. It was all on Joe.

He cast his eyes over the expansive back and broad shoulders of Nicolo di Genova and imagined himself running his hands through the silky locks and pulling his head back so he could bite at the place where Nicolo’s neck met his shoulder. Tying up his wrists with this rope and pushing him to his knees, telling him to _suck_ , like Dante would. Like Joe would. He thought, _I want to ruin this man._

He smiled. It would be fine. He’d barely even need to act.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Sebastien.

Joe sat at the table across from Nicolo and slouched down into the chair, spreading his legs slightly. He waited.

“Action.”


	3. Chemistry

Nico watched from across the table as Joe settled into character; his easy smiles and laughter of the past few minutes disappearing and being replaced by something fierce. He felt Joe’s narrowed eyes roaming over his face and tracing the lines of his neck, watched as Joe’s tongue darted out of his mouth before sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. Joe's gaze dropped back down to Nico’s mouth, and the stare felt like it nailed him in place, the weight of it as heavy as a kiss. _He’s thinking about what he wants to do to me,_ Nico thought, and a frisson of real arousal ran through him, quick but powerful.

The physical reaction forced him to remember: this was a scene. An audition. _He is Dante, and you are Geno,_ he reminded himself. _Dante wants Geno, and he’s tired of waiting. Geno wants Dante, but he does not want him to know that because he’s terrified. You are both_ actors _. You are acting._

It was Dante who leaned forward and said, “Thanks for helping me with this. I’d do it myself, but, you know…” He showed his bound hands to Nico and grinned cheekily. Nico reminded himself again that he was Geno now. He tried to ignore the rope.

He picked up the pencil, put it to paper, and waited with what he hoped was a bored expression. Dante said nothing, just continued to stare at him. “Well, go on then,” Geno prompted, still aiming for disinterest, but, of course, the prompt betrayed his eagerness.

“My dearest,” Dante began. Geno’s gaze jumped up and he found himself pinned under Dante’s. “Write that down; it’s how it starts: my dearest.”

 _My dearest_ , Geno wrote. He felt ill, and even he wasn’t foolish enough not to know why. He was helping this…this _man_ , whatever he was to him, write a…what? a love letter?

“Let me start by telling you that I’m fine. Considering that I’ve been kidnapped, I’m being treated well, and one of my captors has become something like a friend. I don’t think it’s Stockholm Syndrome. Or, maybe it is, I guess I wouldn’t know, would I?” He smiled, showing ever so slightly crooked white teeth stark against his black beard.

Geno’s hand furiously ran across the page, taking down the words. “Go on,” he huffed, once complete.

“I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your smile.” Chuckling a little, he said, “I miss that little grin that comes out when I’ve said something that you like but wish you didn’t.” Geno ignored the hot flare of jealousy in his gut. He kept writing, studiously avoiding the other man’s gaze.

“I wish I could see you, away from here.”

Geno felt Dante’s eyes on his writing hand, as it took down his words, the gaze as hot a caress as any true touch. As always, he tried to ignore it.

“I think about your mouth, all the time. I think about kissing you, the way I think you’d like.” He paused, and his next words practically dripped from his mouth, thick with dark and barely veiled intent. “Slow and deep.”

Geno’s eyes snapped to Dante’s, who stared back at him with none of his usual smirks. His dark gaze told him that he was simply telling him a truth, and it was up to Geno to understand exactly what he was saying. Desire pooled low in Geno’s belly as he lowered his gaze to the other man’s arms, watching as he settled them behind his head, putting the muscles under his shirt on display; but it was solely Nico who took in the wide shoulders and trim waist, all of him looking powerful and strong. Dangerous. He pulled himself back to the scene and saw Dante’s – or was it Joe’s? – smirk.

“Keep going,” Geno whispered. _Get a grip, Nicolo._ He caught Dante’s gaze again, because that was what Geno would do.

Dante leaned forward without breaking eye contact and put his forearms against the table, speaking low. “I think about other things too. I think about you on your knees for me…” Arousal flashed hot through him and he became painfully aware of his heart beating in his chest. _All from a stare_ , both Nico and Geno thought. _From some words_. _God_. “Or about sinking to my own knees for you. Would you keep me tied me up, I wonder? Or would I tie you?” He paused as if considering, sucking on his right cheek. “I think the latter.”

Nico told himself that it was Geno’s cheeks that burned from the thought of the scratchy rope around his wrists; Geno’s chest that felt tight at the thought of being roughly pushed to his knees; Geno’s breath that came shorter when thinking about sliding his lips around the other man’s hard cock. Geno, who was entirely enthralled.

“I think about it the most at night,” Dante breathed. “It’s quiet out here, so I have to be discreet. But sometimes I wonder if the man who stays here can hear me.”

 _We could end this now,_ Nico thought _, he’s making me believe it. He’s perfect. We have to cast him._ But just like Geno, he didn’t want the words to stop, not really.

From the corner of Geno’s eyes he saw Dante’s hands drop to the table to land a whisper away from his own. “I think about touching your hands.” One of Dante’s fingers moved infinitesimally towards his as he continued. “I think about taking your hands and putting them on me.” The skin of his fingers barely brushed against Geno’s writing hand – which had not taken down a word for many sentences - and a shock went through him, quick and instantaneous as a lightning bolt. They both breathed out shakily, and for a moment – the briefest of moments – it felt like it was just Joe and Nico looking at each other in awe before Nico remembered who he was supposed to be.

Geno yanked his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he said furiously. _Keep touching me_ , Nico thought.

Dante – or Joe, he felt like he could barely tell anymore - sat back heavily against his chair and sized up the other man. He wiped the back of one of his crossed hands against his lips before dropping them between his knees. “All right,” he said. “Is that what you want? For me to stop?” They stared at each other, Nico peering out from Geno’s eyes, thinking helplessly, _no, that is not what I want,_ and _this is a scene, this is a scene, this is a scene._ Dante – or Joe, or some combination of the two – cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think that’s what you want at all.” There was a heavy pause, and he smiled, leonine, like a predator about to annihilate its prey, and Nico was ready to be devoured.

* * *

“Scene,” said Booker into the completely silent room. “Damn, Joe,” he breathed, “when can you start?”

It broke the tension that hovered over the group, and there were a few small chuckles as they stood and stretched. Joe smiled broadly at Book’s comment, and suddenly that good-natured straight American comedian who was a little too open and honest was back.

Nico heard Andy mutter to Quynh, “Jesus, they’re hot together. Repeat viewings are going to be through the _roof_.”

Nico knew he should move, but he felt frozen in place, still staring at Joe, frankly stunned by his body’s reaction to the past few minutes. His hands felt cold and shaky, his stomach warm and in knots, his heart beat heavy and damning. He let out a tremulous breath.

Andy strode over and helped Joe undo the knot at his wrists. “That was great,” she said. “You two…” she laughed brightly, “you really had me believing it.”

 _He is…a very good actor_ , Nico thought, watching as Andy unwound the rope from Joe’s hands. _He made me believe it completely._ The desire between them had flared up fast, thick and heavy, fanned by Joe’s sly intimacy and honeyed tones, but it had been a trick, a play. A script. _He is perfect for Dante. He is perfect._

Joe turned to Nico and held out his hand for him to shake. “Well, a good partner makes all the difference.” He smiled, and Nico shook his hand, wondering all the while what in God’s name had just happened.

* * *

They all stood chatting in the room for a few more minutes before Booker finally told Joe that he would be in touch with Ms. Freeman shortly with a final decision. Though he’d already jokingly asked Joe when he could start, nothing was ever a done deal until signatures were on paper, so he said all of the usual things instead – “We have other people to see,” “We have a lot to discuss,” “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” etc. – as he ushered him out the door. As it closed behind Joe, they all held their breath, listening as he clattered down the stairs and finally exited the building. At the final doors' slam, Booker turned back to the group with clenched fists and an overjoyed look and everyone – except for Mr. Copley and Nico – started cheering. Andy grabbed Nico around the shoulders and punched his chest. “I told you, you idiot!” She grinned and looked to Quynh and Booker and said, “I fucking told him!”

“You did, you did,” Nico conceded, smiling ruefully. He had enough grace to admit when he’d been wrong. If Joe Al-Kaysani could make him believe that he wanted to do all of those things in the space of a few short minutes…well. He guessed it didn’t really matter that he was a straight American comedian. “We have our Dante,” he said, laughing a little in relief. _Finally,_ he thought. His proclamation set off another round of cheers. Even Mr. Copley looked pleased.

“All right, all right,” Booker finally said, shushing the group. “First, a celebratory drink or two,” Andy ‘woo’d’ and Booker smiled, “then, we’ll have to get with the rest of the team to figure out our offer. Nicky, I am assuming that you’d like for him to be back here as soon as possible for rehearsals?”

Nico nodded, too pleased to correct the ‘Nicky,’ for once.

“Great. Ladies and gentlemen…” He paused dramatically. “Let’s make this movie.”

* * *

Two weeks later, Nico stood at his kitchen counter, one hand idly circling the spoon in his mug of tea and his other hand scrolling through emails on his phone.

> From: Andy Scythia
> 
> To: Nicolo di Genova
> 
> Subject line: Seen this?
> 
> Casting Joe was genius, and we all owe Booker our first children for it. Not that he would want them.
> 
> \--Andy

The entire email was one gigantic hyperlink, which Nico clicked. It led him to a Variety article whose headline read “Joe Al- Kaysani on His Path to Reality: His life has been absurd. Casting him in a romantic drama is not.” Nico frowned slightly and continued to read.

> “Well, look, I know that I’m not conventional casting. I’m brown, I’m American, I’m just, like, a _dude,”_ he says, laughing. “But it’s a beautiful story, and I’m honestly honored to bring Dante to life.” I ask him if he’s read any of the online chatter about his casting. He demurs. “They’re calling you the Divine Comedian,” I tell him. He laughs, sharp and quick. His dark eyes sparkle, and that famous dimple pulls in at his cheek. “Because of Dante?” he asks, still laughing. “Clever.”

Nico rolled his eyes and shut the article. _The Divine Comedian. Honestly._ A text from Booker pinged in. _We need to get to the gym, Joe’s putting us to shame,_ it said, and below there was a link to an article titled, “The Naked Truth”. He clicked, and was immediately confronted with the image of Joe standing on an empty stage, wearing nothing but a cheeky smile and a very strategically placed microphone. His body shocked the breath out of him. He was tanned, and strong, and muscular in a way that was almost laughable. _Of course,_ Nico thought wryly. _Of course he has that body._ He could kill Book for sending this to him, for revealing what Joe looked like under his clothes. He could’ve gone his whole life without knowing. Not that he _really_ wanted to.

Nico sighed and put his phone and his head down on the counter. Practically every day since the casting news had been publicized, someone sent him something about Joseph _fucking_ Al-Kaysani. They were excited, he knew, for the shocking amount of free publicity they’d gotten from the decision – other people were just as confused as Nico had been about Joe’s apparent dramatic prowess – and they expected Nico to be pleased with every article too, but he wasn’t. If asked, he would say that his irritation at being sent the articles arose from a worry that Joe was pulling focus from the movie – from the _art -_ but of course that was mainly a lie, easily penetrated. Free, positive publicity would do nothing but help the film be a success.

The truth was that he hated being sent the articles, because the more he read and saw of Joe in the press, the more he felt like an absolute fool for the way he’d fallen under his spell during the audition. It seemed that _everyone_ who spoke with Joe fell in love with him. _His dark eyes sparkle, and that famous dimple pulls in at his cheek._ Joe was objectively good looking, funny, and apparently genuinely interested in what people had to say to him. He was the very definition of charm, and Nico had completely fallen for it that day two weeks ago.

Worse still; time hadn’t softened his fixation on the man one bit, and he was starting to feel vaguely embarrassed by that fact. He’d reminded himself over and over again that it had just been extremely well acted desire – a good actor could muster it for anyone, regardless of sex or looks – but Nico had _never_ felt the way he had, that day. He’d always been able to stay objective, to remember who his scene partner was. Lines had never blurred in that way before, to the point where he couldn’t tell what was his desire, and what was the characters’. Joe’s murmured, _Would you keep me tied me up, I wonder?_ _Or would I tie you? I think the latter,_ had haunted him these past weeks. He’d made himself come, over and over again, with the words ringing in his head. It was getting ridiculous. He was thirty-four, not fifteen.

He straightened up and opened his phone again, greedily and quickly cataloguing every muscle in the photo, before responding to Booker with, _Sure. Are you willing to give up alcohol and pasta for the rest of your life?_ Booker almost immediately sent back a gif of the Nazi’s melting head from the first Indiana Jones’ movie. Nico chuckled. _That’s what I thought,_ he sent back, and then closed his phone and took a sip of his heavily sugared tea, considered making risotto that night.

* * *

_Oh, for God’s sake,_ was Nico’s first thought, upon seeing Joe again. He sat at a corner booth with a glass of wine at his elbow, looking almost offensively handsome, with that damn dimple at his cheek and that damn sparkle in his eyes. Nico watched him from where he stood at the entrance, and realized that his apparent mirth seemed to come from observing the eclectically tacky décor of the Trattoria al Moro, which mainly consisted of hundreds of wine bottles of varying vintages glued haphazardly to the wood covered wall, and fake grapevines hanging from the ceiling. He was suddenly very glad that he'd suggested this place; it was worth it just to see Joe's open amusement.

He looked at the time on his phone: five minutes late, as he’d planned, but of course, Andy was still nowhere to be found. Awkward one-on-one small talk seemed to be in his future. He sighed, and made his way over to the table, thinking as he approached that Joe looked alien in the environment, a bright, warm, vibrant, modern thing amidst the drab wood and cold dusty glass; beautiful in a soft-looking black sweater.

“Nicolo!” said Joe. He seemed genuinely pleased to see him, and the smile he offered up made his stomach twist. _He’s charming_ , Nico reminded himself. _And straight. Everyone falls in love with him. Don’t read into it._

He stood and they shook hands before sitting again. A waiter appeared from nowhere and Nico ordered a glass of whatever Joe was having. As Nico thanked the man, Joe leaned back against the booth and smiled. “This is quite the place,” he said, gesturing to the space around him.

“It is,” he agreed, looking around the little room. It had opened in the 30s and had barely been touched since then – except for all of the wine bottles. They sat in silence while Nico cast about for appropriate topics of conversation. _I’ve made myself come every day for two weeks thinking about you_ was obviously inappropriate, and so was the more romantic _I’ve been dreaming of drawing a moan out of that smiling mouth,_ but both were all he could think about. Finally Joe worked his jaw and smiled wryly. “Would you like to ask me how my flight was?”

Nico slid his eyes to Joe’s. “How was your flight?” he asked, as commanded.

“Very good, thank you so much for asking Mr. di Genova. I was bumped to first class for the leg to New York, which was an unexpected delight. You know, they give you champagne before you even take off, in first class?”

Nico, who had been on perhaps two-dozen first class flights in his time, did know that. “I did.” The blessed wine appeared at his side and he took a deep sip from it gratefully. 

“Well, I did not. I’ve done a lot of traveling, but only ever in a van or, you know, steerage, with the rest of the peasants.”

“You travel quite a bit for tours though, don’t you?”

Joe grinned and cocked an eyebrow at him. “So you’ve looked me up?”

Nico was momentarily flustered by both the flirtatious tone and the memory of how he'd learned Joe's tour schedule: he had clicked on an image of Joe that he’d been interested in for purely _personal_ reasons, and had been redirected to Joe's website. Nico felt the beginnings of a blush blooming under his skin at Joe's brilliant gaze, and he fought the low swirl of curiosity that settled in his belly - his guts sending frantic signals to his brain that this _was_ flirtation. It'd been a long time since he'd done that dance but it never _really_ changed, did it? Attraction? Not in millenia. But, then again, he didn't trust his guts, when it came to Joe Al-Kaysani. 

"Of course I looked you up, I'm an executive producer with first right of refusal on all casting decisions," he finally said, opting for safety. He took another sip of wine. _He's_ _charming; everyone falls in love with him; don't read into it._

Joe cleared his throat with a wry look that Nico could barely hope to understand, and continued. “All right. Well, yeah, I travel a lot for stand up, but they’re little mini tours. Lots of road trips.”

Images of Route 66 and Las Vegas flashed into Nico’s head. He’d really only ever been to L.A. and New York; the rest of his knowledge of the country came from movies and television. “That sounds like it could be nice though. Isn’t America supposed to be very beautiful?”

Joe visibly considered the question. “Eh. There are bits of it that are, absolutely. The west is spectacular, but the other three-quarters of the country are pretty boring, honestly.”

“Is it?” He took another sip of his wine.

“Yeah. Or, at least it is for driving. Where I grew up, you basically drive in a giant green tunnel for five hours in any direction before you see anything besides trees on the highway.”

“Where was that?”

“Atlanta.”

At Nico’s expression he smiled. “Yeah, no one in Europe knows Atlanta. It’s in Georgia, which is the state above Florida, where Disneyworld is. Does that help?”

Nico smiled slyly. “Ah, yes. I do know Disneyworld.”

“Happiest place on earth,” said Joe ironically.

“I was in talks to play a Marvel character a few years ago – apparently you are given free lifetime entrance to the parks for yourself and two other people if you join the house of the mouse. I considered taking the part just for my friend's children.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Nico grimaced and swallowed the last of his wine. “Sell my soul to the devil? To be put in blue makeup every day for three months? No, thank you.”

Joe smirked. “Bet your friends kids didn’t appreciate that.”

“They won't speak to me anymore. I ruined their lives; they told me very definitively.”

They smiled at each other easily; Joe's a lopsided sort of grin that made Nico’s wasted heart flutter in its cage. _This_ is _flirtation,_ he thought again. _Isn't it?_

Just then Andy dropped heavily into the booth and the two men turned to look at her, startled by her entrance. She put her hands up. “Oh, don’t get up on my account gentlemen,” she said ironically.

Nico smiled and waved the waiter over. “We won’t,” he said to her. He was both pleased at her entrance and annoyed by it. He already missed having Joe to himself.

“How was the flight, Joe?” She grabbed some bread out of the basket that was dropped off.

“What a polite question,” he said, cutting a pointed glance at Nico, who smirked back at him. 

“I’m a polite gal,” Andy responded pertly. She dipped a piece of the bread in a plate of olive oil and popped it into her mouth with a moan. “Oh, this bread. Fuckin’ divine. Joe, you have to try some.”

“Yes, very polite,” Nico said, shooting her a quelling look as he grabbed a piece of bread for himself.

“What? We already hired him. I doubt he’s going to back out because of some cursing.”

Joe grinned and licked some olive oil from the tip of his finger. Nico requested that his brain not supply any pornographic memories from his fantasies over the past few weeks at the image. His brain did not comply with the request.

Joe looked at Nico from under lowered eyelids. “I wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” he said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the pandemic, because I had literally nothing to do and nothing that needed to be done all weekend. As ever, let me know your thoughts!


	4. The Perils of Maturity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be blown away by the reaction to this fic. Thank you to everyone who's subscribed and commented and left kudos; it is both outrageously motivating and gratifying.

“Well, that was delicious as always,” sighed Andy, as they stepped into the piazza outside of the restaurant. Joe shivered slightly against the chill of a late-November evening. Andy wrapped a black scarf around her neck up to her nose so that only her eyes and forehead were visible.

Nicolo laughed. “Andromache, your Greek is showing. It is barely four degrees.” _Four degrees? Ah – Celsius._ Joe had no idea what that translated to, he just knew that he was cold too. He shrugged on his jacket.

“Fuck off Genova,” she said lightly, the words muffled by her scarf, as she put gloves on too. She turned to Joe and pulled her scarf down so that her mouth was again visible. “Joseph, tonight has been a pleasure. I foresee many more wine and carbohydrate soaked evenings in our future. For now, I’m going to bed. You young people go enjoy yourselves.”

Joe’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Nicolo leaned over and stage-whispered, “Go on, ask her how old she is.”

“That is _obviously_ not something I’ll be doing,” Joe responded, with a polite smile to Andy as if to say _can you believe this guy? He wants me to ask you how old you are._ Even comedians knew that was off-limits.

“Forty-seven,” Andy supplied. At Joe’s shocked expression, she cocked one of her black eyebrows and smirked. He’d pegged her at forty, max, and he lived in _Los Angeles;_ obsession with youth was practically its own religion there. Three times a day the entire city faced towards Jane Fonda and knelt in prostration. _Glory be to Helen Mirren, the Most High._

“I know, right? Never have kids. Keeps you youthful.” She yawned broadly.

“Wow, you, uh…” Joe didn’t really know what to say. _Congratulations, you look much younger than your genetic age?_

“Look great? Why, thank you,” she said. She and Nico hugged goodbye, and she put her hand out for Joe to shake, which he did. “I’ll see you tomorrow Joe. Can’t wait to see you in some fabulous bell-bottoms.” She was referring to costume’s final measurements tomorrow morning.

“She is joking,” Nico said to Joe. “There will be no-bell bottoms in this film.”

“That’s what you think,” she muttered under her breath. “Have a lovely evening.” She pulled her scarf up over her nose, turned, and strode off, her usual all blacks allowing her to disappear quickly into one of the alleys that ran off of the piazza.

Just like that, they were alone. Joe glanced at Nicolo, who was gazing up at the baroque church that loomed over the space. His black jacket was buttoned with the collar turned up against the cold, and his blue – or green – or whatever the fuck color they were _–_ eyes were bright even in the darkness. _He looks like he’s in an ad for something unspeakably sexy and expensive,_ Joe thought. _Cologne, for sure._ _I would buy it, too. I would buy the fuck out of it._

“So…” Joe said. “Which direction are you?” Nicolo pointed to the corner directly across from where they stood.

“And you?” Nicolo asked.

Joe chuckled and said, “You know, I asked you like I know where I am and how to get back to my place. I think it’s that direction too?”

“Do you know the name of the street? Or the area?”

“Monti is the neighborhood.”

“Me too,” he said. “Come on then.”

They walked together across the dark piazza. There were still quite a few people out despite the late hour and the chill; perhaps a dozen or so were clustered around the tiered fountain that stood in the middle of the square. They skirted around it and Joe was instantly reminded of his eighteen year old self, wandering through the other Italian cities, sixteen years ago. He’d spent hours next to fountains just like that one, flirting with other horny teenagers and hoping that he or they would find the courage to make out. He smiled at the memory.

Nicolo glanced over at him and caught the smile, but didn’t ask what it was about. Joe decided that if he wouldn’t ask…he could volunteer.

“I was just thinking about the last time I was in Rome,” he supplied. They turned a corner and walked along a narrow cobblestone laden street; lights bounced off of scattered puddles of water. It must have rained while they were in the restaurant. “I seem to remember spending a lot of time around fountains, trying to get laid.”

It was a not-very-well calculated risk, to steer the conversation to sex; but his hindbrain had apparently decided at some point that evening – probably the moment he’d seen him, truthfully - that fucking Nicolo was a basic biological function and it needed to do whatever it could to make that happen, up to and including occasionally hijacking his mouth. Meanwhile, the rational, sane part of his mind reminded him patiently over and over again that Nicolo should be off-limits for many, _many_ reasons, not least of which was that if things went badly, it had the potential to really fuck up his career.

Nicolo pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Joe with a look, lighting one up for himself when he demurred. Joe hated himself for not smoking then; if he did, he would have Nicolo’s undivided attention on his face as he helped him light up. _Forgive me,_ Nicolo would mutter, as he’d fumble with the lighter, his hands shaking with barely leashed desire. _Forgiven,_ Joe would murmur, and Nicolo would look directly into his eyes at the tone. _What are we doing?_ he’d whisper, and Joe would say _I don’t know,_ and then he would haul him in for a kiss and then drag him by the wrist to an alley where Joe would give Nicolo the blowjob of his fucking life and make him come like he was seeing God, and they could be doing all of that, _right now_ , if only Joe smoked.

 _Maybe I’ll take it up,_ he thought, watching Nicolo breath in, the tip of the cigarette glowing orange in the darkness, and then blowing smoke out of his nose. _When in Rome._

Finally, Nicolo said, “Hanging around fountains and trying to have sex is a classic Italian move. Did you ever see the Trevi?” His hindbrain thought, _Did I see the Trevi? Why, good sir, I only had my first kiss with a boy there._ The rest of his brain calmly said, _Do not say that, Joe._

“I have seen it,” Joe’s mouth said. One point for sanity.

“Would you like to see it again?” Nicolo asked.

“What, right now?”

Nicolo nodded. “It is just around the corner.”

“Well…yes, then.”

It was in fact just as he said; they continued down the narrow street and turned a corner, and there it was, as it had been for the past three hundred or so years. Just as it had in his youth, it took his breath away. Just as in his youth, he was with an Italian man who made his heart beat a bit too quick. _Don’t mention that, Joe._

“You know, it’s really wild that you get to just see stuff like this all the time,” he said instead. Another point for sanity; he was a bastion of practicality.

“Stuff like this?” Nicolo asked. They meandered towards the lit up fountain, Joe’s aesthetic eyes drinking in both the backdrop and the man beside him. He’d always loved beautiful things.

“Yeah, this fountain. Like, you might walk past this on the way to get your groceries here. The Colosseum is, what, twenty minutes away? Walking?”

“Give or take a few minutes, yes.”

“That’s wild. L.A.. is basically just strip mall hell.”

“What does that mean? Strip-mall hell?”

“Well, just…everything looks exactly the same. All of these sad little places. Big box stores and chain restaurants.” He sighed. “Not all of it is like that, of course. But this…” he swept his arm around and looked over at Nicolo, “ _this_ is beautiful. And you can see it whenever you want.”

Joe looked over at Nicolo and practically ached to say, _but it doesn’t hold a candle to you_. Nicolo was looking at him too, and all of Joe’s synapses fired with the recognition of interest in his eyes. Just like earlier at the restaurant, though, whatever he thought he saw in those eyes disappeared almost instantly, and Joe truly did not understand it.

He knew so little about the man, though, really, the sum of his experiences with him boiled down to a few shared words the day they’d met, what he suspected was a hotter-than-the-average audition, and a confusingly-flirtatious-but-not-really dinner just this evening. He knew all of this, but understood another truth, still lingering beneath the surface: Nicolo’s scent struck him as something shockingly familiar, and his fingers longed to touch his skin.

“Did you grow up here?” Joe asked.

“I did.”

“Do your parents still live here?”

Nico cleared his throat and looked askance at Joe. “You did not look me up.”

 _Shit. Is there something I should have known?_ “I…did. Before I came for the audition. But I didn’t after. Felt like it would be creepy, if I were cast, to come into the relationship with a bunch of knowledge you didn’t provide. Like stalking you too intensely on Facebook or something.”

“I’m just fucking with you.” He sat at the edge of the fountain and looked up at Joe, those wide blue eyes made even bluer with the backdrop of moonlight in water. “I grew up in an orphanage. It is almost always referenced in interviews. Sad, motherless child makes good, that kind of a thing.”

 _An orphan_. Joe, who famously _always_ had something to say, had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. “Wow,” he said softly. It was all he could think of. He wished that they were lovers, so that he could reach down and run his fingers through the soft-looking strands, offer up comfort in some physical way, since words were failing him. “Your whole childhood?” he finally asked.

“Yes.” Nicolo watched the swaying water, face placid. “I was dropped there when I was an infant, and I was never adopted out. At eighteen, I left.” He looked up and chuckled lightly at Joe’s expression. “It wasn’t bad, really. It was probably better than a lot of childhoods. The nuns were very kind, and there were always other children to play with.”

“It was Catholic?”

“It was. That is about all we have here in Italy.”

Joe thought of his own parents, who made him insane, but mainly loved him. It might be a conditional love, but it was something, at least.

“Did the nuns know you were gay?” Joe asked.

“Not when I was there, no. I kept it from them, mainly because I still wanted to be a priest at that point.”

“A priest?” Joe interrupted, his eyebrows flying up. “Like, a Catholic priest?” _What a waste that would’ve been._ Joe studied him with open curiosity.

He smiled wryly at Joe’s response. “You would know all of these things if you’d looked me up.”

Joe chuckled. “I mean, apparently I should have. You’re blowing my mind here.”

“Yes, I was thinking about joining the church," Nicolo continued. "It was the easy choice, to stay with what I had known my whole life, but I decided not to. I met with a priest to discuss what it was like.” The soft blue and black of water and shadow rippling in the fountain reflected on his face as he picked his next words. “He was a nice man. Paolo. We…embarked on an affair,” he said primly.

“Nicolo. Are you telling me that you had an homosexual affair with a Catholic priest?” _It’s always the quiet ones._

He laughed softly and Joe watched as a little blush appeared on his cheeks. He met his eyes. “I do not usually tell interviewers that part, but, yes, I did.”

“From failed priest to actor. How did that happen?”

“Ah, that part is not so complicated. There were some people making a film who approached Paolo about playing one in their film. He was... he was quite good looking, you see. But he suggested I do it instead. And that is how I began acting.”

“Wow,” Joe said, laughing. “Holy shit. What a backstory.”

“Yes, I have had a rather unique life, I suppose,” he responded through a smirk.

It was that - that tight little lopsided smile - that made Joe realize that he _liked_ Nicolo. He didn’t just want to fuck him, he wanted to get to know him, to see what was under his protective little shell. He wanted to prise him open and _understand_ him.

 _Shit._ His first real crush in years, and it was on a moderately famous European actor that he’d have to be on set with, and pretend to fall in love with, for three months. _Couldn’t have picked someone easier, could you, subconscious?_ His subconscious, as was its wont, did not respond.

“I have so many questions, Nicolo, I barely know where to start.”

Nico set his hands on the cold stone next to his hips and looked up at Joe. “Ask whatever you would like.”

“Okay, first, and perhaps the most important: Was sex with a priest any _good?_ ”

Nicolo burst into surprised laughter. “That question, I have never gotten.” He pursed his lips, looking contemplative. “I thought it was, at the time. I was so young. But it has not stayed on the ranking board as I’ve grown older.”

“Don’t tell me that a priest took your virginity, Nicolo, I can’t take any more insane facts. It might kill me.”

Nico looked at him with a little smile and cocked his eyebrow, and Joe understood immediately that a _Catholic fucking priest_ had been the first person to have sex with Nicolo di Genova. If his head could have exploded, it would have.

“Nicolo! You dog.” They smiled at each other, and Joe said without thinking, “And I thought I had a wild losing-my-virginity story.”

“Oh yes? Well then, let’s talk about you. What is your scandalous exploit?” Nicolo stuffed his hands into his pockets and crossed his legs at the ankle, as if settling in for a good story.

“It was here, actually. Well, in Venice. On that backpacking trip I’ve mentioned?” Nicolo nodded in recognition, and Joe sat down on the edge of the fountain next to him, momentarily shocked by the chill of the stone under his thighs. It began to warm quickly. “Me and my friends, we were hanging out on a bridge over one of the canals, drinking and being, you know, idiots, and there was this guy who kept staring at me. I don’t remember much about him, just that he had curly brown hair and he looked like Fabrizio Moretti.”

“Who is that?” Nicolo asked.

“He’s the drummer for The Strokes.” At Nicolo’s blank expression, he said, “It doesn’t matter; he was just the first real crush I ever had on a guy.” Nicolo’s eyes widened slightly at that, and Joe continued. “So, he introduced himself, and we started talking, and next thing I knew we were walking around the city. Guido, was his name,” Joe laughed. “Terrible fucking name. Anyways, we found an alley and fucked against the wall of a church, if you can believe that. He actually _had lube_ on his person - which, looking back on it, is hilarious - but no condom. It was really, _really_ stupid, but hot at the time, but, well…I didn’t get any diseases from it, so it worked out all right.” He trailed off and realized he’d been talking for too long. He cut a glance at Nicolo, who had an odd expression on his face. “Sorry,” he said. “Professional hazard. I’m always trying out stories on unsuspecting audiences.”

“It’s fine,” Nico said. His gaze met his, fled, met his again. “It’s just…I didn’t realize that you are queer,” he finally said, and then flinched when Joe burst out laughing.

“Sorry!” Joe spat out, when he saw his look. “Sorry. I just… really? You didn’t?”

“No!” he responded, now laughing at himself, rubbing his hands against his face and up through his hair. _Well, now you know, so you can kiss me,_ Joe thought _._ “Well, I had an idea, I think. I thought, maybe…” Nicolo trailed off and Joe watched as the laughter died, as he swallowed down whatever he had been about to say.

 _I want to kiss him more than I want my next breath,_ Joe thought wildly. His rational mind whispered, _He is your co-worker. You are about to be on location for three months. This is your big break. You need to be smart here, Al-Kaysani._ Joe took in Nicolo’s soft brown hair and those ridiculous eyes and that nose that wasn’t quite big but wasn’t exactly small and that fucking beauty mark next to his lips, and he decided that being smart was way overrated.

Joe stood and started walking away from the fountain, hoping Nicolo would follow. After a second, he did. “I actually had another first here, when I was young,” Joe said, stopping abruptly and turning back. Nicolo stopped as quickly as possible, but it still left him only about a foot away.

“Oh? What was that?” Nicolo said, through a swallow. _He’s into me,_ Joe thought. _I knew it. I fucking knew it._

“The first time I kissed a boy. It was here. Right over there, actually.” He pointed over to an alley across the plaza. “That trip was basically a giant coming out party for me. Went a little wild, away from my parents for the first time, and Italy was very, ah…welcoming.” He gauged his expression as he watched Nicolo looking over to the alley and back to him. Nicolo’s eyes dropped to his lips.

 _Fuck it,_ Joe thought. _He is too beautiful and there is some molecular level attraction happening here. Who am I to fight chemistry?_ He inched forward until his left leg stood between Nicolo’s, his booted foot pressing slightly against his own, and his right hand curled lightly around the tips of Nicolo’s fingers at his side. Joe felt a shudder run through Nicolo's body at the touch and heard him suck in a harsh breath as he leaned forward to whisper into his ear. “You know… We could check out that alley again. See if it’s changed in sixteen years.”

 _“Joe,”_ Nicolo exhaled. Joe waited, a hairsbreadth away from Nicolo’s mouth; the curve of his upper lip inches from his. Frozen, waiting for any sign of assent.

He didn’t get it. Nicolo sighed; a heavy sound, full of regret. “Joe.” He extricated his fingers from Joe’s and pushed very slightly against his chest so that he would move back. “I would like to do that. You are... very attractive.” He huffed out a laugh and muttered something in Italian. “ _Very_ attractive. But, this is not a good idea.” Joe stepped further back to give him more space, and Nicolo continued. “I have been on sets with actors having affairs, and when it ends badly, it is a disaster. Andy and I – and many others - we have been trying to get this movie made for five years, Joe. I can’t put it at risk, no matter how much I might want to, right now.”

 _He’s right,_ said Joe’s rational brain. _We tried to fucking tell you, but did you listen? Idiot._ Joe smiled, quick and easy, to ease the worried look on Nicolo’s face. He did understand, he really did. It was just hard to think rationally when Nicolo was nearby. “I get it,” Joe said, “I do.” He looked back at the fountain and the people around them, everywhere except in Nicolo’s eyes, which he felt lingering on his face. _This is only humiliating if you let it be,_ he told himself.

“Joe, look at me.” Joe met Nicolo’s stare. “I _want to_ , Joe, I just…” he sighed heavily and trailed off. Joe read frustrated desire in Nicolo’s gaze, and he understood. He didn’t have to like it, but he understood. It was the smart thing to do. Why risk what seemed to be the beginnings of a great friendship for a quick fuck? _Because it would be_ the best _fuck, and you know it,_ his unhelpful brain supplied. Joe told his brain to shut the fuck up. _That’s how you got in this mess,_ his mind unhelpfully taunted.

Joe smiled again at Nicolo, trying to make it as genuine as possible _._ He didn’t want him to worry. He would be okay. “I understand, Nicolo. I really do. We’re okay.” He turned back towards the fountain and cast about desperately for a neutral topic. “So, Andy. Forty-seven, huh? I’m assuming she has a portrait of herself withering away, stashed in an attic somewhere?”

Nicolo barely smiled, and failed to recognize the pivot for what it was. “I _am_ sorry, Joe, you-“

“Work with me here, Nicolo,” Joe interrupted. “We can absolutely move past this, but you…you have to work with me right now.” Nico finally swallowed and nodded in agreement, breaking his gaze off from Joe’s.

“I…I played Alfred Douglas, a few years ago.”

“What?” asked Joe.

“You referenced The Portrait of Dorian Gray, just then, yes? Oscar Wilde? Alfred Douglas was his lover, and it was his father who sued Wilde for sodomy. It is basically why he died.” He paused for a moment. “I am working with you, Joe.” Joe nodded once, tightly.

“Interesting role?” he finally asked.

“Very,” said Nicolo.

They had a pleasant walk back to Joe’s hotel; discussed Nicolo’s other roles, and some of Joe’s stand up bits, and what the next day held. Joe reminded himself all the while that it was the right choice – the adult choice - not to act on their attraction.

Later that night, when he finished the entire bottle of fancy champagne Netflix had provided upon his arrival, and made himself come thinking of what would have happened if he’d just put his lips to Nicolo’s and damned the consequences, he told himself that those were adult choices too. But, man. _Fuck_ being an adult.


	5. Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to sound like a broken record at some point (maybe it's already happened), but thank you so much to everyone leaving comments and kudos. I appreciate every single one.

Nico woke in the darkness, tipping from dreams into a muddled wakefulness as his body tried to remember where it was. His own home, his own bed, his own sheets. Judging from the bluish light creeping in through the windows it was just short of dawn. Wrapping his duvet around his shoulders, he sleepily walked to the windows that faced the east and opened them to the cool air. There was a pack of cigarettes still on the sill from a few days before. _Perhaps I should quit smoking_ , he thought, lighting his first of the day.

The sun began to peek its way above and around the rooftops. Nico watched, and drew in a nicotine-tinged breath.

He’d always been early to rise, always loved the peace and calm that came from the dawn, the feeling that he and he alone shared communion with the light of the sun. It was the closest to something holy he ever felt now, his belief in God long since disappeared. He studied the light gracefully making its way towards his gradually brightening flat and his mind turned, inevitably, to the night before.

It had been almost impossible to push him away. Joe’s desire – playful, somehow, as if propositioning him was just a lark – had been delicious and sweet and American as… as apple pie. Of course, Nico didn’t just want the gently rounded edges of _sweet_. He hungered for something darker, too, and Joe’s whispered words from the audition - _Would I tie you?_ \- had purred through Nico’s brain as Joe had leaned in and held his lips so close to Nico’s skin that if he’d breathed too deeply, they would have been on him.

A wave of arousal rose at the memory and he took another deep drag of his cigarette.

He truly hadn’t expected Joe to reciprocate his desires in any way. His feverish fantasies from the past few weeks had been entirely predicated on Joe’s inherent _straightness;_ Nico could fantasize all he wanted but it would never enter the realm of reality. And then, last night, perhaps four hours into actually knowing the man, it had been put into the open that they both wanted the other.

But he’d done the right thing, difficult as it was. Pushing him away had been the right decision. The weak and hungering part of himself that had wanted nothing more than to give in and submit had no place here: he was an artist, but he was also a businessman. The ever mounting cost of production – of costumes, and permits, and salaries; of camera and trailer rentals; of literally keeping people fed and alive while on set – had to be considered worth the investment by Netflix. Nico knew that the movie would never be a commercial hit, but if it were a critical hit –if it kept just enough people paying the monthly fees, and just enough critics interested in the platform as a ‘legitimate’ production studio – it would be enough.

Nicolo Di Genova’s appetites would not stand in the way of the film’s success. Vices died with starvation. He would not feed them.

_Fuck,_ Nico thought, dragging in another heavy breath through the cigarette. _This is why I can’t stop smoking. This is your fault, Joe._

* * *

His phone pinged with a text from Andy as he stood in line at his usual café a few hours later. _You almost here?_

_Ten minutes,_ he responded. _Want a coffee?_

_What a gentleman. Yes please. I’ll need it, to get through the day._

_Why? Did something happen?_

_There are six women here, and two are lesbians, but at least five are already in love with Joe. The amount of eyelash fluttering…_

Nico simultaneously sighed, shut his phone and placed his order with the barista.

He didn’t _need_ to be present at the fitting today, especially if Andy would be there, and this morning, as he’d poured his first cup of coffee, he considered skipping it entirely. But Nico knew that he wouldn’t have thought twice about going if they’d cast someone else – someone Nico did not want to fuck, not to put too fine a point on it – and he was determined to proceed as if there wasn’t this _thing_ between them. This irritating, lovely, inconvenient _thing._

Grabbing his cappuccino and Andy’s black coffee, he thought of what tomorrow held and wondered how early he could start drinking. He’d need something stronger than coffee to get him through that. He’d ask Booker – Booker would give him the answer he’d want to hear.

* * *

“Took you long enough,” said Andy by way of ‘hello’, when Nico walked into the room that had been requisitioned by the costume department. There were dozens of rolling racks spread out on the concrete floor, organized by character or type of character. Andy and Quynh both stood next to the rack labeled ‘mafia – young’. Andy gratefully accepted the coffee Nico offered her and immediately took a sip. Quynh clutched a mug of tea and waved in greetings.

“How has it been?” Nico asked them. There were roughly half a dozen women flying around the room, jumping from rack to rack, pulling out items, putting them back, consulting with each other, checking tags. One woman sat on the floor, sewing what looked like a skirt. He didn’t see Joe.

“Fine,” Andy said absentmindedly. “Joe took off his shirt.”

Nico understood her text from earlier immediately. “Ah. So that is why the women are in love?”

Andy yawned and looked disinterestedly at her phone. “Yep.”

Joe watched as she yawned again and then took another sip of her coffee, debating if he should tell her later about the surprising turn of events from last night. _No,_ he decided firmly. _It’ll just make things even more complicated._

Just then, Joe emerged from behind a curtained off area Nico hadn’t noticed, tucked as it was into the corner of the room. He wore straight-legged jeans and a tight black short-sleeved collared top. The entire room turned to look at him. _God, he looks good_ , Nico thought, accidentally.

“Thoughts?” he asked the team, and the designers descended upon him in a wave of rapid Italian, sewing tape, and needles. Nico suppressed a laugh at Joe’s panicky expression; Andy did not. Joe’s wide-eyed gaze snapped over to hers at the sound and then immediately jumped to Nico’s, whom he had not yet seen. He smiled a little and the lines at his eyes crinkled in a way that was deeply pleasing, but should not be. _You are a professional with only a professional interest in this man,_ Nico cautioned himself.

“I don’t speak Italian,” Joe said.

“Oh, you don’t?” Andy said, with the deepest sarcasm.

Finally Valentina DiNardi, their venerable head of costume design, shooed away the women and said to Joe in heavily accented English, “You. Come here.” She crooked her finger and then pointed at the ground in front of her. “Stand.” Joe obliged. “Stay.” She gestured to him, palms up, exactly as if she were directing a dog.

Turning to Andy, Nico and Quynh she said in Italian, “Well, what do you think?”

They approached where he stood, eyeing him up and down. Nico studied the way the shirt laid against his chest and tried – and failed – not to recall what it looked like unclothed.

“Could we do something lighter for the shirt?” Quynh asked. “We want to be able to see the blood. It needs to be visceral.”

Valentina nodded and called for one of her assistants to bring Joe “the light blue,” which the woman did. She walked to Joe and presented him with a light blue button up shirt. Joe did not take it, but did look deeply confused.

“Put that on, Joe,” Andy told him in English.

Understanding apparently dawning, Joe nodded and stripped off his top in one smooth motion, exchanging it for the light blue shirt the assistant held out for him. For a glorious moment, Nico’s eyes traced the crests of his heavy shoulders, down his chest and abs to his hips, and that lovely v. It was the purest kind of torture, to know that all of that beautiful body could have been his to touch, if only he hadn’t been so damn calculating. Nico watched as Joe’s capable looking hands buttoned up the bottom four or so buttons and left the rest undone. He tried to ignore that expanse of still-exposed skin, the light smattering of hair. _I could have run my tongue along that strip_ , he thought.

“I like that,” Quynh hummed in English, so that Joe could understand. She turned to Andy and Nico. “Unbuttoned is good, right? Last glimpse of the body, before he dies?”

Andy and Nico nodded in agreement, and Nico’s mind whirred with the acted out implications of what Quynh said. “Yes,” Nico responded. “Their relationship begins with lust. Geno should want to touch him, one last time.”

Nico glanced at Joe, whose expression danced with something serious – focused and heavy – something like the way he’d looked at him as he’d moved into his space last night at the Trevi. _God, to be looked at like that again._

**“** But of course he can’t,” he continued. He heard an undertone of regret in his own voice, and from the way Joe looked at him, he knew that he heard it too. Irrationally, he was glad. He _did_ regret that he couldn’t touch him, but he couldn’t tell him that, but perhaps he could _understand…_ _Stop this, Nico_ _._

He lowered his eyes so they could not see whatever desire was no-doubt apparent in them.

“Well, I say thumbs up,” said Andy. “Plus, he looks great in that color.” She took another sip of her coffee. “What’s next?”

* * *

Six outfits and four hours later, they broke for lunch.

“We have two hours for lunch?” Joe said incredulously, as they walked down the stairs. “ _Two_?”

Quynh laughed at his expression. “You are in Italy, Joe, not America. If it can be done in thirty minutes, it can also be done in two hours. If you would prefer, though, we can call everyone back in, resume the poking and prodding?”

“No, no,” Joe said hastily, “I’m _fine_ with a two hour lunch, it’s just weird.”

“It won’t be like this on set,” Nico warned. “Lunch will be a tight thirty minutes.” He pushed open the door and they all walked into the gorgeous early winter day, where the air was crisp but not cold, and the sun lay warm upon their faces. He sighed in deeply, felt the air in his lungs. “But for today? Two hours seems perfect.”

Nico caught Joe glancing over at his tone, which was perhaps dreamier than he would have liked. Joe smiled at him, as if he liked what he saw. _Would it really be so bad, if we had sex?_ When Joe looked at him like that, it made him want to ignore his better self entirely.

It had been a perverse impulse, to invite Joe to lunch, considering that for the past four hours all he’d wanted to do was escape that stifling room: every time Joe’s shirt came off it felt like he could barely breathe. But when they’d called time and Joe had stood there looking momentarily lost, it seemed rude not to invite him, given that he knew no one else. Of course, he really just wanted to spend more time with Joe. _I am a fool,_ he thought.

Joe and Quynh walked ahead, and Nico and Andy fell behind. “So, how was the rest of your night?” she asked him.

_Romantic,_ he thought. “Fine,” he said. “I just walked him back to his hotel.”

“He’s a nice guy. We got lucky, finding him.”

“Don’t tell Booker,” Nico said, “or we will never hear the end of it.”

“Are you kidding? He already told me he ‘saved the movie,’” she mimed quotation marks, “ _twice._ I’m never giving him credit for anything else, ever again.” Nico smiled at her faux outrage and they fell into a companionable silence.

_He’s a nice guy_ , he thought, watching Joe as he walked a few feet ahead. He was laughing at something Quynh said, and the sun reflected off of his curly black hair. _So why does he make me so nervous?_ He was all nerves, and he had been all day: nerves at his proximity, nerves at his feelings, nerves that he had to hide this ridiculous crush from the person who knew him best in the world, and from anyone else working on the film. He told himself that he was grateful at least that Joe had backed off so thoroughly, that he seemed so at ease and _normal_ around him. Nico, on the other hand, could not focus on anything except how he should be acting – he worried he seemed too eager or too aloof, too flirtatious or too cold. An actor with no idea of how to act. The irony.

He pulled his focus back to the walk. Rome really was showing her best side today. The streets of the Prati were relatively busy with workers going to and from their lunch breaks, and the light reflected beautifully off of the more modern white buildings. He hoped they would be able to eat outside. He’d be able to steady his nerves better, outside. More to look at.

As luck would have it, there was a table outside. Andy and Quynh ducked inside to grab menus and go to the bathroom, while Joe and Nico sank gratefully into chairs in the warm light and tipped their heads up to the sun. Joe put on his sunglasses at the same time that Nico realized that he didn’t have his.

“You don’t have any sunglasses, Nicolo?” Joe asked.

“Apparently, I do not. Left them back at my flat,” Nico responded.

“It is very bright out. I wouldn’t want you to damage those eyes.”

“I am not so delicate.”

Joe cocked his head and ran his eyes up his arms and lingered on the breadth of his shoulders before looking him directly in the eyes. “No. Maybe not.” He paused, as if hesitating, before continuing. “You look like you could take a lot.”

All thoughts fled as goosebumps rose on his flesh. _And here is my ultimate problem,_ Nico thought. Joe’s face was open and kind – _Joe_ was open and kind - but those lips seemed capable of uttering words Nico’s greedy imagination might script. _On your knees. Shut your mouth. Slut._ The combination was intoxicating. He breathed in a shaky breath. Joe bit into his right cheek and then licked his lips, as if he knew the effect he had had on him, and he was pleased by it.

Andy reappeared with their menus, and sat down next to Joe. Nico wanted to fall to his knees and praise her for breaking the moment; he’d been so close to jumping off of the edge of sanity into the deepest wilds of a terrible decision. ‘ _Why don’t we find out how much I can take_ ,’ on the tip of his tongue.

As she distributed the menus, Andy peered at them over the top of her sunglasses and said, “So, are you boys excited about tomorrow?”

Quynh appeared and took the open seat next to Nico.

“What’s tomorrow?” Joe asked, before taking a sip of water. “I don’t remember off the top of my head.”

“The intimacy coordinator,” Quynh said to Joe from across the table.

“Ah, yes.” Joe cut a glance over to Nico. “It should be interesting,” he said, with a little smile.

“Have you ever done a love scene before, Joe?” Andy asked. A bit shitty on her part, Nico thought: she knew the answer was no, just like Nico and Quynh did. It had been a big part of their contract negotiations with his agent.

He smiled again, but differently. This one had a hint of nervousness. “I haven’t,” he said.

“You will be fine,” Quynh interjected, shooting a suppressive look at Andy. Nico silently thanked her for it. Simulating sex was a uniquely bizarre and nerve-wracking part of the job, and she really shouldn’t tease him. “Gita is wonderful,” she continued. “I worked with her on a series I did two years ago. The actors had nothing but good things to say about her.”

“We will make sure you are comfortable,” Nico agreed, slipping into the producer role. _Now, how I will feel is an entirely separate issue._

“I don’t doubt that you’ll _try_ ,” Joe said with a huff of laughter.

“It will be odd,” Nico acknowledged. “But with an intimacy coordinator, I believe it will be easier than is perhaps normal. A good sex scene is like a well-designed dance, and she will be the choreographer.”

“So you’ve never worked with one?” he asked.

“I have not. There are only a few of them working now. But in the past it has just been myself and the other actor blocking it out with the help of the director, and I can assure you, even if I have not worked with a coordinator before, it will be easier to do it with her than how I have had to do it in the past."

“And we’ll have a closed set when you actually film those scenes,” Quynh supplied, “just you two, myself, and the DP.”

Joe chuckled slightly. “I appreciate you trying to calm me, but it’s fine. I knew _exactly_ what I was signing up for, thanks to those very, ah…specific contract terms. Full frontal nudity, simulated sex. Kissing, with tongue.” He smiled wryly. “ _Very_ specific terms.”

The waiter appeared to take their order. It didn’t appear that she understood what Joe had just said, or if she did, she just ignored it. He continued when she left. “It’s not the sex that worries me, really. I’ve done it enough, and I know I can get into a scene.” Nico’s mind perked up with undisguised interest at that, his appetites rousing yet again. _Into a scene. What could that possibly mean?_

“I just keep thinking about my parents,” Joe continued. All thoughts of sex evaporated.

“Ah.” Quynh nodded. “Yes, I understand. My father almost disowned me when they saw _Unusual People._ He is _very_ Vietnamese.”

“Right,” Joe said. “So you get it. Mine are Muslim. It would be bad enough to simulate sex with a woman, but sex with a man...” He trailed off and huffed out a breath as if words temporarily failed him. “It’s going to bring up some uncomfortable discussions. I mean, they don't even know that I’m gay.” The eyebrows on Quyn’s normally implacable face rose infinitesimally. Andy nodded, as if it wasn’t a surprise at all. For himself, Nico was surprised that Joe's parents didn't know; he was so open and honest - lying about something as significant as that must be terribly difficult. 

“Well,” Quynh finally said, “We’ll have to make the movie as good as possible, then, so that it will be worth it.”

Their drinks were dropped off. Andy grabbed hers and raised it for a toast. “To disapproving parents," she said. "Fuck 'em."

"Fuck 'em," they all agreed, clinking their glasses together.

* * *

As they walked back to the costume department, Nico leaned over to Andy and whispered, “You knew Joe was gay?”

She shot him an incredulous look. “What, you didn’t?”

“No!”

“I clocked him from the moment I met him. I was kind of hoping you two would fall in love, but that doesn’t seem likely now.”

“Why not?”

She stopped and put a hand to his face. “Oh, sweet baby Nicky. We _hired_ him. I know you won’t put the film at risk.” She tapped his cheek and turned to catch up with Joe and Quynh walking ahead of them.

We hired him. You won’t put the film at risk _. Maybe I should get that tattooed on the inside of my eyelids_ , Nico thought. Joe made it far too easy to forget.


	6. Intimacy

Joe had for some reason imagined that the intimacy coordinator would be a slightly older woman, glamorous but grey, maybe wearing a voluminous caftan and many bracelets and smelling of patchouli, so he was taken aback by Gita, whose entire aura screamed _cool_. She was in her mid-thirties too, with black skintight jeans ripped at the knees, a gigantic black sweater, dark – almost black – lipstick, and a nose ring. Her accent confirmed what his American brain had automatically assumed with the all black getup: she was French. So, she was not what he’d been expecting at all, but her no-nonsense handshake and wide smile set him at ease instantly.

She led them into what appeared to be a crossfit gym – _Do they have crossfit in Italy?_ Joe wondered – that was floored with thick black and gray mats. She sank to the ground with a dancer’s grace and then drew her knees up and looped her arms around them.

“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing for them to join her on the ground with a smile. Once they were seated, she turned to Joe and got straight to business. “So, Joseph. I understand that this will be the first time you’ve performed simulated sex, yes?”

 _If it’s possible for me to blush, I would be doing it now,_ he thought. “You can call me Joe, and, yes, it is.”

She nodded. “Good. It may be a bit uncomfortable at first, but I want to assure you that we will do whatever we can to ensure that you feel good about everything that has happened when we are done at the end of the day. You must let me know if at any point you do not feel comfortable, but I will be checking in with you every step of the way regardless. Does that sound good?”

She paused to wait for his response, and Joe nodded in agreement.

“Good. And you know that we will start entirely clothed, and stay entirely clothed, until just before filming?”

“Yes,” he said. It was the only reason he didn’t feel nauseous.

“Good. Let’s get started then.” She turned her attention away from Joe and now spoke to the both of them, grabbing a large black notebook that sat at her side. “So, we’re going to start by trying to understand the characters. What are their motivations? Why might they do certain things, or react in certain ways? I have a few questions, and the both of you should answer to the best of your abilities. No wrong answers, of course.” She smiled as if sharing a private joke with herself. “So, Nicolo. How do you feel the first sex scene should play out? I have my own thoughts, but would love to have yours. One-word answers. The first words that come to your head, please.” She sat with a pen poised above the notebook, expectant.

Nico visibly thought of the question. “Urgent. Frantic,” he said. _Hungry and wild_ , Joe supplied. An image of Nicolo underneath him flashed in his mind, his strong, pale, naked body; his back arching. _Fuck, you have got to get your shit together Joe. You cannot be you, you have to be Dante, and Nicolo is not himself, he is Geno._

“Anything else?”

“Submission.” Joe almost laughed out loud. _Oh, come_ on _,_ he thought, _just keep saying words that are custom built to turn me on, Jesus._

She hummed and wrote down the words. “Perfect. Joe?”

“Um. Pretty much what he said.” His mind was a purposeful blank, wiped clean after Nicolo’s words so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself with his inconvenient desire.

She smiled at his response. “In your own words, please, Joe.”

 _Get it together. Be a professional._ “Okay. Well, I think the other main word is desperate. Maybe… struggle?”

“Elaborate,” she prompted, her wide brown eyes not straying from his face.

“Well, they’ve been dancing around this attraction for a while, right?” Joe very pointedly did not look at Nicolo. “I see the first time as something animalistic – desperate – but they’ve been fighting it and each other for so long that I can’t see it being anything other than a fight for dominance – so, struggle. Plus, I feel like Geno might just be kind of pissed off about the fact that he’s giving in at all.” He finally looked to Nicolo to see if he agreed. “What do you think?”

Nicolo looked somehow impressed, as if he’d not expected Joe to come up with a legitimate answer. “I agree completely,” he said.

“That is good,” Gita said. “This was our line of thinking as well. They have a contentious relationship; it would not be especially romantic, at first.” She jotted something else down in her notebook and then flipped towards the end and turned the book horizontally to show what was on the page. It was a little storyboard.

“So, here is what Quynh and I were thinking for that scene. They get into a fight – not a real one, but a… a scuffle. Both end up on the ground.” She thumbed to the next page, which showed two men grappling with each other. “They continue to fight, rolling around, trying to get the upper hand. Dante –“ she turned to Joe and asked, “who has always been the aggressor, yes?” and Joe nodded to confirm – “he ends up on top, pinning down Geno.” She flipped to the next page. “This is the point at which desire reappears. Clothes come off. Geno – who, as you said, Nicolo, will be 'frantic' - flips them so that he is on top, and then he performs oral sex on Dante.” She flipped through the next couple of pages, which showed what the camera would capture – one shot lingered on Dante’s face, one where Geno lay between Dante’s legs, one hand spread out over his stomach. “The camera will pull away as the act occurs, and then we will cut." She looked at the two of them, her eyebrows raised with a question. "Thoughts?”

 _My parents are going to fucking kill me_ , Joe thought. “Makes sense to me,” he said.

“To me, as well,” said Nicolo.

“Wonderful. The lingering question is if there is kissing of any sort. Not romantic, as we have established, but lip-on-lip contact?”

Joe was about to say _yes,_ but Nicolo had already started nodding _no_ as she spoke. “No,” Nicolo immediately said, “Geno would not allow it. Dante could perhaps try, but I believe that is a step too far, at this stage.”

“I agree, but with a caveat.” Nicolo turned to look at him, his eyebrows slightly raised, as if he were surprised to have any debate. “Dante absolutely _tries_. I have always played it as if he is half in love with Geno, by this point. You saw my auditions, Nicolo?”

“I did.”

“So you know. But I do agree that Geno wouldn’t allow it.”

Nico nodded, apparently conceding to Joe’s finer point.

“We are in agreement, then. No kissing.” She stood and looked down at where the two men still sat. “Do you feel comfortable sketching out the broad strokes now? As I said, you will stay completely clothed. This scene especially will be more like planning a fight. Normally I would not ask to jump in so quickly, but I know that we are on a very tight schedule.” It was true: principal photography was set to start in just a week, and they only had two hours with Gita today.

Joe looked at Nico. _Now or never_. He flipped through the storyboard in his mind – it really would be like blocking out a fight, especially since there would be no kissing. “Yes, I’m comfortable with that.”

“Do you remember the lines from the scene just before this?” Gita asked Joe. The scene from his first three auditions – _yeah,_ he thought, _pretty sure I remember that._

“I do.”

“Perfect. Let us start from the top then.”

They turned and eyed each other, dropping into their characters.

It really went better than either expected.

* * *

“I hope it is not rude to say that I thought today would be much more difficult than it was,” said Nicolo, as he poured another glass of red for Joe. Joe laughed, because he knew exactly why he’d thought it would be difficult; Joe had thought the same thing. Attraction plus grappling on the floor would equal horniness in front of an unsuspecting stranger. But it hadn’t gone like that.

“And why is that, Mr. di Genova?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. He held the glass to his chest and swirled it around as if he knew what the fuck he was doing with wine. It was his second glass in less than an hour – he really should stop after this.

Nicolo shot him a look that said _you know why_ as he poured another glass for himself, but of course, Joe couldn’t possibly let him off the hook _that_ easily. “Is it because of your overwhelming lust for me, Nicolo?” He grinned saucily and thought he saw a blush beginning to form on Nicolo’s cheeks. “Nicolo, were you worried you wouldn’t be able to control yourself?" Nicolo put his hand to his forehead and peeked out at him from under the shade of his palm, laughing with obvious embarrassment. His wide smile, as always, caught Joe off guard. It completely changed his face, like clouds over the moon had parted, and beams of light shone through to paint the world white. _Oof, what a thought, Joe. Confirmed: no more wine after this._

“Or maybe you were worried _I_ wouldn’t be able to control my lust?” Joe continued on, leaning forward, enjoying himself a little too much. He’d just discovered that making Nicolo laugh could light up the pleasure centers of his brain just as surely as kissing him would, and it felt fucking good indeed. He didn’t want it to stop. _But you probably should_ , he reminded himself.

Nicolo laughed again and said, “Something like that, yes.”

Joe sat back in his chair. “Ah, so that’s what it was. Well my friend, you have vastly underestimated my abilities. You didn’t hire an amateur. I am a goddamned professional.”

Nico chuckled and took a sip of his wine. “Forgive me,” he said, putting his other hand to his heart. “I shall never do it again, on my life.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Joe responded, smiling into his glass before he took another sip and looked around the little trattoria. As most places in Rome seemed to be, it was tiny, with a handful of tables running down the length from the door back to the kitchen, and poorly lit, but purposefully so.

When Nicolo had suggested they grab dinner together after rehearsal, Joe had been surprised, but pleased. He’d thought that after his disastrous attempt at seduction the other night, Nicolo might want to avoid him one-on-one at all costs, but apparently that was not the case. Maybe they really were going to be adults about this thing between them.

He also hoped that Nicolo’s decision to ask was helped along because Joe had been, as he’d said, a goddamned professional. Besides his slip up yesterday – ‘ _you look like you could take a lot’_ , he’d muttered, like an idiot, truly unable to help himself in that moment – he had stuck to his predetermined plan of treating Nicolo as a friend and colleague, and nothing more. He'd done it, too: during rehearsal there had been no lingering touches or flirtatious asides, which had been difficult, but not nearly as difficult as he’d thought it would be. For Joe, the simple reminder that millions of dollars were invested in and banking on his acting abilities, and that his entire career depended on this one performance, had turned him into a fucking method actor, while they'd been on that mat. He had been Dante; Nicolo had been Geno.

A worrying thought whispered through his mind that it would probably get tougher, this 'being a professional' thing the closer they got to actually filming – the scene today had been more of a fight than anything else, clothes would eventually come off, touching and kissing would be integrated - but that was for Future Joe to worry about. For now, his plan seemed like it was working. He told himself not to be disappointed by that fact.

So when Nicolo had asked, Joe had agreed. He'd gone back to his hotel, taken a shower, quickly jerked off so his dick wouldn’t get any ideas like it had two nights ago, and met Nicolo at the little restaurant just around the corner from his place. He was proud of himself too: he hadn’t even thought about Nicolo when he’d jerked off _–_ well, not much, anyhow.

“So,” Joe said. “You’re feeling good about today?”

“I am. I feel that we made quite a lot of progress, and I am…” he paused, as if searching for the words, “pleased that you have put so much thought into Dante.”

“Mmm. You thought that I would not?”

“No,” he quickly protested. "Well," he just as quickly amended with a little smirk, "… perhaps. I was something of a snob about hiring you, I will admit. I had to be convinced. You should probably buy Andy, Quynh, and Booker dinner, sometime.” Some hair fell over his eye. He quickly tucked it behind his ear.

Joe sat back and admired the man across from him. He was gorgeous in black, with the dim light behind him; the chiaroscuro of a perfectly imperfect face. _This is exactly how I would want to paint him_ , he thought, _the darkness would only illuminate his light._

It had been easy to be professional when they were working – now, not so much.

“Tell me more,” Joe prompted.

“It's not so complicated. I was worried because you are a comedian, and you have no experience with dramatic roles. Even the most experienced actor has to be very brave, to take on a role like Dante.”

“You think I’m not brave?” Joe asked, but with a smile, so Nicolo would know that he was not offended.

“No, no! That is the wrong word. Fearless, perhaps?”

Joe laughed for real now. “Those are synonyms! And my goodness, you _are_ a snob.” Nicolo seemed to blush at that, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. Joe took another sip of his wine. “You think I'm not fearless _,_ ” he muttered to himself. “You know, I think that doing stand up is about as fearless you can be." He leaned forward and idly drew his finger around the rim of his wine glass, catching Nicolo's gaze. "Imagine being all by yourself, alone on stage, staring into the dark wall of hundreds, maybe thousands of eyes. They’re watching you, but you can’t see them. You're begging them to laugh, based on the words _you_ wrote – there’s no hiding behind someone else’s words, up there. But the catch is that the only way you'll get better is by bombing. If you know what doesn't work, you can figure out what does. Imagine that. Failure as the only path to success.” He took a deep swallow of his wine.

Nico nodded, apparently imagining it, the expression on his face something like fascination. The food arrived, and the second the waitress left, Joe continued.

“Secondly, the stand up I’ve done – have you watched any of it?”

“No,” Nico responded, looking somewhat abashed.

“Well, fuck you too,” Joe said with a laugh.

“I am sorry! I did not think it would interest me, but that is because I am a snob, as we have already established. I will watch it.”

Joe waved away the thought, not offended at all. “You don’t have to, I was just wondering how much I needed to tell you.” He took a bite of his cacio e pepe and nearly groaned at the flavor. He sat, savoring, truly baffled by how much _better_ pasta was in Italy and wondering how that was possible, and thinking that he should burn every Olive Garden to the fucking ground when he got home, until Nicolo interrupted his thoughts with, “You were saying?”

“Right, sorry.” He grinned at being caught out in one of his musings and Nicolo smiled with something like exasperated affection. “I had one special that did really well – _Muhammad in Suburbia_. At its core it’s about being different, and the vulnerability that comes from being, you know, unusual. Where I grew up I was legitimately the only brown kid for, like, thousands of miles.”

Nicolo frowned, calculating. “I do not understand miles, but surely that cannot be correct.”

“Sorry – that’s an exaggeration. But it felt like it, you know?”

“I realized that I preferred boys when I was twelve and I was raised by nuns in a Catholic orphanage,” Nico said drily. “I understand what it feels like to be different, yes.”

“Right! It did well because _everyone_ feels different. Obviously with your experience it's easier to pinpoint the difference, but even straight white guys feel different. It's usually, like, “Oh, I feel so different because I have _feelings_ ,” which, I mean, fuck off, but also, sure! It’s not the norm for straight white men to be emotionally expressive in America. That’s legit too.”

Nicolo was grinning now, his eyes sparkling with good humor, listening to Joe talk. Joe grinned back but then immediately pursed his lips to keep his smile from growing too wide and goofy. Having all of Nicolo’s pleased attention on him, and on his words, was completely intoxicating. He felt like he’d had far more than a glass and a half of wine. He reminded himself to be good.

“Anyways. Part of it also touched on the difference of being Muslim, and how weird that was for me. I grew up around too many liberal atheist white kids and religion never really _took_ with me - and I was a rebellious little shit, so defying my parent's religion had that going for it too - but after 9/11, I was the Muslim kid. I had never really thought of myself as that. Another difference.” He sighed. "My parents… my parents did not appreciate that portion of the bit.” An understatement. His parents had barely spoken to him for months.

“You have a bad relationship?” Nicolo asked, with understanding in his eyes.

“No." Joe shook his head emphatically. "No, I wouldn’t call it _bad._ I know that they love me. I’m just a disappointment. I’m a thirty-five year old unmarried agnostic comic with no kids.”

“And that is why they do not know that you are gay,” Nico supplied.

“Bingo,” said Joe, with an ironic finger-gun.

Nicolo took a thoughtful sip of wine and then turned the full force of his attention on Joe, who felt it down to his toes. “I apologize,” he said softly. “I should not have implied that you are not brave. I can see that was a mistake. You are more brave than I am.”

“What makes you say that?” _Tell me_ , he thought desperately, _tell me how wonderful I am._

Nico shrugged and leaned back, resting an arm against the back of his chair, eyeing him from across the table. Joe liked the expression on his face; it was as if he suddenly found Joe very interesting indeed. Finally, he said, “I had no parents to disappoint, and God is always disappointed in Catholics, so I never much struggled with my preferences, if that makes sense.”

“Not really,” Joe said. It did, a little, but Joe wanted him to keep talking, to open up more. He _liked_ him, and he was reminded of that fact every time they spoke. He was thoughtful, measured, and kind. Reserved, but open. Attraction coiled more firmly around his heart.

Nicolo took another sip of wine. “No matter what you do, you are a sinner, because God knows all. He knows if you think sinful thoughts, and those thoughts are as bad as actually acting on those thoughts. So, what is one more thing?”

“You would have been a _very_ unconventional priest,” Joe said, smiling at him.

“Well, I really only came to this conclusion after Paolo. I suppose that it is too easy to say I did not struggle at all – of course I did, as a teenager. But, not for long. I have now been comfortable with my sexuality for longer than I was not.” He shrugged, as if to say, _and that is that._ “And in reference to performing stand up – it is true that I have only ever had to be other people, never myself. Perhaps that is a form of cowardice.”

“I never said that,” Joe protested.

“You did not,” Nicolo agreed. “I am adding my own thoughts to your earlier point. It is easy to hide behind a character; difficult to be exposed as yourself.” His wide eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side, as if sizing him up. “You are very unafraid.”

Joe’s heart stuttered at the proclamation, and he squirmed a little at the compliment. This man, who’d grown up with no parents and fucked a priest at eighteen, thought that _Joe_ was unafraid. The flattery warmed him like a blanket; it was...comforting, somehow. But of course he was wrong. He was afraid of a lot.

“I’m afraid of things. My parents don’t know I’m gay. The public doesn’t.” _And you,_ he thought. _I’m scared of you._

“But they will,” he said with finality, as if he knew. His gaze didn’t leave Joe’s. He found that he couldn’t look away, as if he were hypnotized by those startling eyes.

“I hope so,” he said softly.

Nicolo nodded, satisfied with the answer. He drained the last of his glass of wine. “Would you like another?” he asked.

Joe hesitated for a moment. He really shouldn’t. Three glasses of wine, hours of stress, antsy lust, ill-advised infatuation...

“Sure,” he said. _Fuck it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I truly hope you enjoyed. We're in the slow portion of the slow burn, but I swear to you that the burn is coming.


	7. In Vino Veritas

Nico swirled his third glass of wine so it could aerate and studied the face of his companion across the table. Joe wore a curious little smile, shy and proud at once, and an ache went through Nico’s chest at the expression – he wished, then, badly, that this was really what it felt like: a first date with a handsome, funny, fascinating man that was going extraordinarily well. One where he might, at the end of the night, tip his head back slightly at his door and expect a kiss to be pressed to his lips.

The problem, of course, was that he probably _could_ get that soft kiss – and far more – if he gave any indication that he was amenable to it. But he couldn’t. Or, shouldn’t.

“So,” Joe said, “you said you’ve been working on getting this movie made for five years, right?” _I told him that the night we almost kissed. He must be thinking about it._ A blush threatened.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“So it means a lot to you?” he asked, taking another bite of his pasta.

“It does, yes. I read the story for the first time when I was about fourteen. It was in the attic at the home.”

“Scandalous,” Joe said with a grin.

Nico laughed. “I suppose that it was. I have no idea how it got there. It was in a box of books – perhaps they were donated and they never sorted through them?” he mused.

Joe shrugged, as if to say _who knows._

“Well, I loved it immediately. It, ah…spoke to me.”

Joe hummed thoughtfully, then, with a cheeky smile and a raised eyebrow, asked, “Because of all the gay sex?”

A startled laugh burst out of him at the blunt phrasing, and he watched Joe’s pleased smile spread at his reaction. Joe could so easily make him laugh and every time it made Nico foolishly want to kiss him, if only to see if he could taste that good humor and amiability on his tongue, to steal some of it for himself.

It had been a long time since he’d had sex, but he hadn’t much missed it, probably because he’d forgotten that it could be in any way joyful. He remembered it now.

“You know…yes. If I am being very honest, of course it was that. As an adult, I can appreciate its characterization and style, and its historical significance, but at fourteen…yes, it was the gay sex.” _And because it gave me a fun fetish,_ he thought. _Would you like to tie me up and fuck me, Joe? Slap me if I get too mouthy?_ He swallowed some wine and hoped his no-doubt rosy cheeks could be attributed to the alcohol.

“Me too,” said Joe. “It was actually assigned in my lit class in high school, if you can believe it. I remember all of the other guys moaning about how ‘gay’ it was. Me and, like, two other kids who I’m sure were in the closet too were _conspicuously_ quiet.” He laughed at the memory.

“You weren’t out yet?”

“Oh – no. Definitely not. I was entirely straight until I graduated.”

“It is hard to imagine you in the closet,” Nicolo said.

“Why is that? I’m half in the closet now,” he reminded him.

“I understand why you might not wish for your parents or the public to know, but you have been very open about it with myself and everyone else I have seen you interact with so far.”

“Well, I’m twenty years older now, and the world has changed a lot. This would’ve been the early 2000s, you know? Basically the only gay person I knew of was Ellen Degeneres, and she was a lesbian. And I was really into sports. You can’t be a gay guy on a soccer team.”

“Well, that has not changed much,” Nico muttered, taking a bitter swig of his wine at the thought. As he swallowed he realized that he was beginning to feel something close to drunk. He didn’t usually have more than one or two glasses of wine with dinner. His tongue was loose enough for him to say, "I dated someone on A.C. Milan for about two years, actually."

"Really?" Joe asked, with obvious fascination. "Who?"

"Andrei Baciu."

Joe's jaw dropped open. "No!"

"So you know him?" Nico quaffed some more of his wine and regretted bringing his ex up, especially since Joe was apparently one of the handful of Americans that paid attention to European football.

"Yes!" Joe laughed, apparently delighted. "Damn, Nicolo, well done. He's fucking hot. Great midfielder, too."

Nico swallowed some more wine and grimaced. "Yes. Very hot and very talented. But never willing to be seen in public with me."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry about that, Nicolo, you don't deserve to be a secret."

Nico waved his hand as if to say, _don't worry about it._ "Thank you Joe, but it's fine. He was not that great of a guy in the end."

"Can I ask what happened?"

"You can. He slept with someone else. He was nothing if not a cliche."

"Ah. Well, I'm sorry about that too." Nico was looking down slightly, so Joe ducked his head down to catch his gaze and hold it. "You deserve much better," he said very simply, as if it were just the truth, and Nico's breath came a little shorter. _How would you treat me, I wonder?_

"Well. Thank you." He sipped some more of his wine, feeling unbearably awkward. They couldn't keep talking about exes. That way lay danger. "Back to you, please. You were talking about school?"

Joe smiled a little and easily accepted the abrupt change in topic, as he seemed to easily accept everything else. _He really would be a great boyfriend,_ Nico thought, accidentally. “Right. Well, I told you I was entirely in the closet, but that's not strictly true. I had two friends who knew – the girls who came with me on that trip I keep bringing up. So I wasn’t one hundred percent in. My foot was sticking out.”

“And you grew up in Georgia, yes? It is very…” _Oh, I am drunk. What is this word in English?_ “- conservative?”

“Well, Atlanta isn’t, especially. The state actually voted for Biden in the last election, too, which was awesome, but, again, that’s twenty years later. Going to UCLA was kind of a godsend.”

“What is that?”

“University of California, Los Angeles – it’s where I went to college. You have the honor of dining with the proud owner of thirty thousand dollars in debt and a completely useless art degree.” He grinned and gestured as if to say _ta da!_

“And what an honor it is,” Nico responded with a no-doubt giddy smile. _He’s an artist too?_ He felt sure that the universe must be laughing at him now: _here, Nicolo_ , it said _, here is an ideal man. He is funny, smart, kind, artistic, and beautiful. Look, but do not touch._

“Anyways, yeah, I moved to L.A. and was entirely out from the word ‘go’. I met some other comedy nerds and started going to open mics and improv classes, and…that was that.” He paused. “Honestly, it’s probably like the worst kept secret in L.A. that I’m into men, but it doesn’t seem to have gone anywhere beyond a few blind items online.”

“And you have never volunteered the information,” Nico finished.

“Right.” Joe finished his glass and sighed. “I am starting to feel a bit guilty about that. I think if I could guarantee that my parents would keep talking to me I’d be able to do it. Things have changed. People don’t care as much.”

“And a gay Islamic man would be a wonderful thing for other boys such as yourself to see,” Nico said gently. “Even if you are not practicing.”

“Yeah, I could be a great fucking role model.” He sighed heavily. “Well, this movie will almost certainly force the conversation anyways, so I’ll probably be out soon enough.” He smiled, but weakly, and Nico realized that Joe was sad, which he did not like. Time to change the topic.

“So, you are an artist as well?” he asked, pouring another glass for himself and for Joe. They were almost done with their second bottle. Nico couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a _bottle_ of wine at dinner. He tried to regret it, but he had enjoyed himself too much this evening to believe it.

“I don’t want to call myself an _artist_ , but, yeah, I’m competent.”

“What is your medium?”

“Mainly drawing and painting. I used to enjoy sculpture too, when I didn’t have to pay for the materials, but now I mainly stick to my sketchbook.” Nico admired Joe’s strong looking hands curled at the base of his wine glass and remembered the sensation of them on his wrists earlier when they’d been blocking the scene. His calluses suddenly made sense.

“And what do you draw?”

“Oh, everything, but I prefer drawing people. So much more interesting to look at than buildings or fruit or whatever.” He looked over to Nico and seemed for all the world like he was about to say something, thought better of it, and then reconsidered. “I’d love to draw you sometime, actually.”

A pang of longing passed through him, followed by something softer. Affection rearing its inconvenient head.

“You have a very interesting face,” he continued.

“Mmm. The nose.” He touched the nose in question. “They keep telling me that it is ‘Roman.’”

“Yes,” Joe said through a smile. “But that’s just part of it. Each one of your features is strong, which is unusual, but what’s interesting is how well those features work together. They don’t, usually.” He paused, his eyes roamed over Nico’s face. “And the color of your eyes…I’m sure you’ve heard this your whole life, but they’re fascinating. What color do you consider them to be?”

“Green,” Nico said, and Joe smiled, a quick thing.

He dropped his forearms on the table and leaned forward, still staring into Nico's eyes. “No, not just _green_ , Nicolo. Verdigris.”

“And what is that?” Nico thought of looking away from his gaze but found himself unable to. Joe's dark eyes sparkled with something like fascination, and it was just as powerful as the wine.

“It’s a greenish blue that only decides upon its final color when mixed with different pigments," he said, "and it’s the color of your eyes. It’s beautiful, temperamental. Hard to get just right, but worth the effort.”

Nico had no words for that; all his lips wanted to offer Joe in response was a kiss. Did he even realize how romantic those words were? He allowed so many of his thoughts to fall out of his mouth – maybe he didn’t. “Are you a poet as well?”

Joe swallowed and pursed his lips. “When the occasion calls for it.”

“Any other hidden talents?”

He immediately realized his implication as Joe’s smile turned dark and the air between them became charged in a way it had not been all evening. Nico watched as Joe licked his lips and he was reminded of how Joe had seemed to him in the audition, as Dante; honed and dangerous. The urgent lust he thought he’d been able to stifle all evening with their friendly conversation was suddenly awake, and hungrier than before. He swallowed hard.

“Joe…” he said. _This has to stop,_ he thought, as he watched Joe’s gaze drop to his mouth. _Right? I should stop this._ His own lips were parted.

“I wish I could kiss you,” Joe whispered. Nico’s pulse suddenly beat hard, everywhere, in his throat and hands and feet; his body urgently sending up two entirely conflicting urges: _run_ and _fuck_. For a long moment they watched each other’s faces, each studying what they found there. _It would be a massive mistake,_ he reminded himself. _A massive, unbearably hot mistake._

The waitress suddenly appeared at their side to ask if they wanted any dessert, breaking the moment and bringing with her blessed sanity. Nico declined her offer but asked for the bill.

He looked back to Joe as she left, and whatever was on his face prompted him to quickly say, “I’m sorry.”

“Joe –“

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Joe interrupted. “It was inappropriate. I mean, it’s the _truth_ , but it’s… I know I’m putting pressure on you whenever I flirt with you and that’s not fair. To either of us, really.” He took another nervous gulp of his wine and then grimaced. “I should probably stop drinking, huh?”

“We are in the same position we were before,” Nico said, with a little more sadness than he would have liked. But, fuck it, he _was_ sad. “Nothing has changed.”

“I _know_ , Nicolo.” His brows drew together - a subtle little movement, but it told Nico volumes. Regret was written across his face, present in the lines at his forehead and bracketing his mouth, as stark as ink on paper. “I honestly apologize.” He huffed out a little laugh. “Does it make this better or worse to say that I really feel like I can’t help myself around you, sometimes?”

“Oh, Joe,” Nico said softly. The waitress reappeared with the credit card machine and the most awkward pause Nicolo had been a part of in a long time descended upon them as he paid and she corked their tiny amount of leftover wine. They stood, shrugged on their coats, and walked out of the restaurant in silence.

Nico gratefully felt the cool air on his skin, after the constant warmth of the last few hours. It had been years since he’d remembered how hot his blood could run.

He felt a touch at his elbow and turned to see Joe looking at him with abject misery on his face. It was a new expression Nico had not yet seen; he found he did not like it. He had the slightly irrational, drunken thought that Joe should _never_ feel pain. “Nicolo. I hope I haven’t fucked things up.”

“No. No you haven’t, Joe.” He paused and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, weighing his options and ultimately deciding that honesty was the only way forward with such a complicated situation. “It is just...I truly do not know what we should do about this.”

“This?”

Nico gestured between the two of them. “This. Our attraction. Apparently we both feel it still, and it does not seem like it is going to go away, but, I am… scared, of what will happen, if we act on it.”

“Scared?”

_Yes, scared, because I have known you for all of one month and spent time with you for three days, and if anyone could break my heart, I think it might be you._

But he couldn’t be _that_ honest. “Yes, with the film.”

“The film. Right.”

“But if we don’t act on it, will this just keep happening?”

“No,” Joe said. “It won’t. I promise it won’t.” Silence fell between them until Joe huffed out a breath and looked up at the sky, as if trying to draw strength from it. “And I was doing so well,” he muttered. He turned to face Nico head-on and caught his gaze. He said, seriously, “It won’t happen again, Nicolo, I swear.”

It seemed impossible that it wouldn’t, he was attracted to Joe in a way that he was sure he never had been attracted to anyone before, and he _wanted to_ , but there was just so much at stake. He felt frozen with indecision and helplessly telegraphed to Joe, _please, just kiss me and make the decision, I want you badly enough to give in, Joe, please._ Unfortunately it appeared that one of Joe’s aforementioned hidden talents was not mind reading.

“Maybe this’ll make the movie better,” Joe finally said, with a wry little smile. “Disregarded desire. I mean, that’s like half of the script, isn’t it?”

Nico laughed a little, and though it was a pathetic little thing Joe smiled wider. “A smile. Good.” They looked at each other, a million things left unsaid, but purposefully so. _I want to kiss him, even after this conversation. This is never going to work._

“All right, well. I’ll let you keep that wine,” Joe said with another genuine, if slightly tight looking smile. “See you tomorrow.” He turned and began to walk away before pausing and turning back. “And Nico?”

Nico looked up at him hopefully, thinking _maybe he has changed his mind_. “Yes?” 

“Besides this catastrophic fuck up, I had a really lovely evening. I hope you have a good night.” He turned and walked away, leaving Nico standing alone in a cold and dark Roman piazza, holding a mainly empty bottle of wine. He had the irrational thought that he’d like to smash it on the cobblestones beneath his feet, but did not.

* * *

Nico thought of terrible things, that night.

He imagined a nice hotel room, mentally furnished it with modern looking chairs and light fixtures and a soft bed with a metal bed frame, and a man’s strong body laid atop the cool sheets.

He imagined the man’s fist gripping his cock and stroking it slowly, his back arching as pleasure shot through him. His fist would speed up, working himself faster and faster until he stopped with a quick moan, his handsome features pained and his dark eyes squeezed shut.

Lying on his own bed, Nico’s hands slid down to his own cock and began to stroke, imagining that Joe would be wondering if Nico was touching himself too. _I am_ , he thought. _I am. I want you so badly, Joe, please, please fuck me._

Joe would lube up the fingers of his other hand and press them inside of himself, wishing it was Nico’s fingers opening him up, because his own hands couldn’t touch him the way he wanted to be touched.

 _Nicolo,_ he would murmur.

 _Call me Nicky,_ Nico would say, wanting to hear his childhood name on this beautiful man’s lips.

 _Nicky,_ he would sigh. _You’ve been cruel, Nicky, to deny me._

 _I’m sorry,_ Nico would say. And Joe would… he would push him face down against the bed. _Do you want to be fucked,_ he would ask. Would he say that? No, no permission; he would say, _You’re going to get fucked._ And he would spank his ass, hard enough that it would push him forward on the bed.

Heat broke out as Nico imagined it, his hand moving faster on his cock. Joe would tie Nico’s wrists behind his back with a tie – no, a rope – so tight that his shoulder blades practically touched. Strong hands would yank his hips up and back and he would force himself into Nico with no preparation and it would _hurt_ , but that was good because he’d been cruel, hadn’t he, to deny him? This was what he deserved.

He groaned out loud at his own perverted desires, throwing his arm over his head, his hand slowing down and then stopping.

He thought, _let’s tell the truth here,_ and resumed his stroking to an entirely different scene. Joe would walk him home at the end of their date, both a little drunk on wine and the attraction that buzzed between them. They would arrive at Nico’s door and Joe would say, _I wish I could kiss you_ , and Nico would respond, _you don’t have to wish it._ Nico would hold his breath as Joe’s warm palm cupped his jaw. _I’ve wanted this for weeks,_ he’d whisper, just before their lips touched, and just that faint brush of skin on skin would send tight, urgent heat from Nico’s mouth to his neck, through his chest and belly, and into his cock. Joe would sweep his tongue into his mouth and draw his hands into his hair and he would _pull_ and Nico would moan at the hit of aggression, and Joe would pull back slightly with a knowing smile and put his hand on Nico's throat and he would say – he would say – he would say, _you like that, you little slut, don’t you?_

Nico’s balls pulled tight and he pushed up into his fist, faster, rougher. Fuck. He would be romantic and mean, soft and hard. He had the most beautiful, kindest brown eyes with lines at the side when he smiled. His body was perfect. He was an artist. He made him laugh. 

He almost shouted when he came, words tumbling out of him sounding like a long forgotten prayer. His cock throbbed, each spurt wringing a low moan from his throat until he was spent.

“Joe,” he sighed into the empty room.

His hand fell to the side and he laughed a little. _I am such an idiot_ , he thought.


	8. A Total Mindfuck

Joe knew he must have slept that night, because every time he shut his eyes and opened them again, the light coming in from the windows had changed, but he sure as shit didn’t feel like he had.

When he opened his eyes for what he estimated to be the millionth time since he’d laid his head on the pillow the night before and saw that the harsh light from the streetlights below had finally transformed into the soft gray light of dawn, he left his warm bed and went for a run - running being one of the few things he could rely upon to make his brain shut up, and he needed his brain to _shut up._ The distraction worked so well that he did not actively think of his disastrous evening again until he stripped for his shower and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked _tired_. Probably because he had tossed and turned all night long, his brain screaming at him for his stupid, stupid mouth.

 _I wish I could kiss you_ , he’d said. His reflection scoffed at him. “You are the fucking worst,” he said to the mirror.

 _Calm thyself, Joe_. He unlocked his phone and pressed play on his Sigur Ros playlist and sighed when he heard the calming notes of _Sigur 3 (Untitled)_ coming through the installed speakers. This really was a nice hotel – at least there was that, he supposed.

He stepped into the shower and sucked in a shocked breath at the feeling of the purposefully cold water sluicing down his body, cleaning him of lingering sweat and shame. Well, it didn’t really work for the shame. _Thirty-five years old and still making the dumbest fucking decisions, Joe, you really_ are _the fucking worst._

He knew that he was more than capable of keeping his mouth shut, but it seemed that every time he spent more than an hour with Nicolo di Genova the thread of hard won self- control that he’d spun over the decades completely unraveled.

He poured conditioner into his hand and started to work it through his curls.

He’d been terrible at shutting up when he was a kid; he was always talking, always trying to get a laugh, always inserting himself into conversations he wasn’t a part of. He’d been an annoying little shit, and it wasn’t until he realized he couldn’t talk about _boys_ the way he’d wanted to that he’d learned a bit of oral self-control. Stand up had further refined the skill - he paid far more attention now to what came out of his mouth; attention to which words worked and which didn’t, and to the audience’s reaction to both.

He quite literally owed his success to his ability to _choose the right words_. He’d been featured in Vanity Fair and The New Yorker and fucking Vogue because he was clever, and quick, and _not stupid,_ and yet, here he was, like a fucking kid again, unable to shut his damn mouth. Of course, it didn’t help that Nicolo was…well, the way he was. Last night, he had looked at Joe with those verdigris eyes – Joe winced, remembering how he’d waxed poetic on that topic - as though he was fascinating, someone worth sharing time and space with, someone he wanted to get to know. Not just lusted over, though that was certainly a part of it. Someone he actually _liked_.

As for Joe…well, he really liked Nicolo too. _More than you probably should, really, if you consider how little time you’ve spent together. You fall in love too easily, Joe._ That was the truth. He’d told his abhorrent ex Matt that he loved him after four months of dating and they’d broken up only three months later, after he’d found Matt with another man _in Joe’s bed_ , which made Joe realize that he didn’t even like the guy that much.

He was beginning to think that he had no idea what love was.

He ran his fingers through his hair to feel for any stray conditioner and then tilted his head back to let the water fall onto his face. _I wish I could kiss you,_ he’d said. He laughed at his stupidity, water getting into his mouth. _Just because it’s true, doesn’t mean it needs to be said._ He thought he’d learned that twenty years ago.

What if he’d done it, though? What if he’d just said _fuck it_ and stepped into Nicolo’s space and held his beautiful face in his hands and just…kissed him? He might be here, now, on his knees in this shower with Joe, looking up at him with those verdigris eyes and whispering _may I, Joe?_ in that _accent…_

He sighed and told himself to stop it. Told himself that even if he had made the move, it probably wouldn’t have been worth it. Nicolo was legitimately and understandably concerned about how the film might be affected if they gave in; and Joe understood that his anxiety about that would not have led to a lazy morning after, even if they had made it to bed.

So he would just have to deal with what he’d said, and with not being able to do what he wanted. What they had between them was infatuation, pure and simple, and it was intoxicating, but it was better not to act on it. Wiser. Maybe, in a few weeks, all of this sexual tension would feel like a dream. He would ask: _Did I dream the way Nicolo looked at me during his last fitting, regret in his eyes? Did I dream that Nicolo said he wanted to, too? Did I dream that his gaze had dropped to my mouth after I’d said it wouldn’t happen again?_

He soaped up his shoulders, chest, and down between his legs and then scrubbed himself with a washcloth, watching the soap run down his body and into the drain. He was awake now – wide awake – and he was determined not to fuck up again. This was going to work. He would make it work.

* * *

 _This is never going to work,_ Joe thought, as he watched Gita and Nicolo talking from across the gym. He gulped down some water.

They’d just finished recording the first sex scene – still clothed of course – so Gita could send it to Quynh for final approval. Now that they were happy with that scene – fight, thwarted kiss, blowjob – it was time to move onto the next sex scene – deepening romance, kissing, Geno fucking Dante. Joe swallowed. _I am in way over my head here_ , he thought, his stomach twisting in knots. _Why did I think that I could do this?_ Acting out any of the aforementioned three bulletpoints would be weird as shit with anyone, but with Nicolo? How the fuck was he supposed to do it? He literally felt more nervous than he had standing backstage before taping _Muhammad in Suburbia_ , and he’d thought _that_ had been a nightmare.

“Joe,” Gita called. She waved him to come over to where they stood. He dropped his bottle and jogged over, telling himself for the thousandth time that he could perform simulated sex with Nicolo - that he’d done it yesterday and this morning, to great success. _But there wasn’t any kissing yesterday or this morning,_ _and you_ really _want to kiss Nico,_ his brain unhelpfully reminded him. _You think you’re falling in love with Nico, even though it’s only been like three days, because you are an incurably romantic dumbass._ Sometimes he wished he could mute his brain. But of course his brain was right.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Yeah?” he said, as he drew up to them.

“Do you feel comfortable beginning the second scene now?” she asked.

 _Nope, sure don’t, never will_ , he thought. “Yeah,” he said, nodding for good measure. He did not for one second look over to Nicolo, but he felt his gaze upon him.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s sit and discuss.” She sank down to the ground with her usual grace and Joe and Nicolo followed. “So,” she continued, once they were all seated, “as you know, this scene will include kissing. Many actors find it challenging to kiss, because, of course, it cannot be simulated.” She drew her knees in and looped her arms around them. “It will therefore be very important that both of you really understand the characters’ intentions in each moment, so that you give into the correct impulses. There is really only so much direction that can be given here – you two must improvise based on your characters motivations and thoughts.” She turned her attention to Joe. “Joe, do you feel comfortable kissing Nicolo during this scene?” Her perceptive eyes did not leave his face as she waited for his answer.

 _Nope! Sure don’t! Never will!_ he internally screamed. “Yes, of course,” he said. She nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer and whatever she saw on his face, and then turned to Nicolo. “And Nicolo? Do you feel comfortable kissing Joe during this scene?”

“I do,” he said to her. Joe still did not look at him.

“Perfect.” She pulled out her large black notebook again, and flipped to the middle, this time, before folding it over and presenting the storyboard.

“So, in this scene, as you know, Geno is the instigator. He will come into the room where Dante is sleeping.” She pointed to the first square, which showed a man leaning against a doorframe, with a sleeping man in the foreground, facing away from him. “He walks over to the bed and turns Dante so that he lays against his stomach. He will try to pull down Dante’s jeans, but will not be able to.” As she flipped to the next page, she said, “Joe, it will be up to you when exactly Dante wakes up, but he must of course be awake before your line.”

 _Help me turn over_ , his brain supplied.

“He helps Dante turn over,” Gita continued her narration.

_Untie my hands, Dante says, once he’s settled onto his back._

_No, responds Geno. Dante can hardly see him in the dark of the little stone room, but he wishes he could, so badly. This man will be the death of him, he thinks._

_Then take off my clothes, he whispers._

“Geno will pull off Dante’s jeans and pull his shirt up – of course, with Dante’s hands tied to the bed, he will not be able to take it off entirely,” said Gita.

_Kiss me, Dante says. He’s been waiting for the touch of Geno’s lips for weeks._

_No, responds Geno._

“Geno will turn Dante back over in order to penetrate him from behind. He has a small bottle of lubrication and a condom in his pocket, both of which he will pull out. The camera will stay on Geno’s face and upper body as Nicolo simulates putting on the condom and applying the lubrication to Dante.” Her fingers traced the storyboard and Joe’s eyes followed along with the actions. “Now, Nicolo,” she turned to him, “make sure that you pour the appropriate amount – I imagine there will be many young men watching this for inspiration someday.” She smiled slyly and Joe let out a genuine laugh – it was the first time he’d heard her be anything other than deathly professional.

She looked back to her sketchbook and went right back to business. “Geno will then penetrate Dante.”

_It hurts, a little, even with all of the lube. He’ll have to teach him how to open him up properly, Dante thinks, but after just a few moments he moans at the sensation of having Geno inside. It feels better than he could have expected; than he could have dreamed. Geno is finally inside of me, Dante thinks, and yet I cannot see his perfect face, cannot kiss him, cannot help him understand how I feel…_

_Let me turn over, Geno, please, he moans._

“Geno will help guide Dante onto his back,” Gita says.

_Kiss me, Dante commands again, and this time, Geno complies. When their mouths touch, Geno makes a soft noise and mumbles Dante’s name._

Her fingers guide them through the actions on the paper. Finally, she says, “They kiss, and move against each other in the usual manner, and Geno will untie Dante’s hands. All of that will be improvised; just do what feels correct. There is one action that must happen, at the end.” She points to the second-to-last square of the storyboard and looks to Joe. “You will need to wrap your arms around him. Preferably below the armpits, hands down against his back.”

 _His arms round him pressed as though forever,_ Joe remembered. It was a line from the original scene in the story. “Of course,” he said.

“Then we fade to black. Any questions?”

Joe had felt calm while Gita spoke and he imagined the scene, but nervousness came roaring back with the silence. _You can do this, Joe. Just like yesterday and this morning. You will be Dante, and he will be Geno._

Gita was looking at him expectantly. “No,” Joe said, “no questions.” Nicolo said the same.

“Joe, do you still feel comfortable with performing what has been described? To be clear, this scene will include kissing, your hands will be tied, and Nicolo will partially disrobe you. To be very, _very_ clear, he will unbuckle your belt, take off your jeans, and take off your shirt. You wore leggings underneath your jeans, yes?”

“Yes,” he said, his throat dry.

“Good. Please confirm that you are comfortable proceeding.”

“Confirmed.”

“Good,” she said, and then turned to Nicolo. “Nicolo, you also feel comfortable with performing what has been described?”

“Yes,” Nicolo said. Joe looked at him for the first time since they’d sat down. He looked entirely unperturbed, but then, apparently Joe did too.

“Perfect,” Gita said. “Let us begin.”

Nico stood up and walked a few feet away before turning to face where Joe still sat at the same time Gita stood and walked over where a number of large dumbbells lay against the wall. She pointed at one of the larger ones and asked Joe to move it to the middle of the floor before wandering over to where her bag lay near the door.

Joe complied, dropping the weight heavily on the mat as Gita reappeared with a length of climbing rope. As she wound the rope around his wrists in front of his chest, she said to him, “Remember, if you need to stop, please say ‘stop.’” It felt like she’d told him that once every hour. _Yes, I know the very creative safe word_ , Joe thought, with a bit of irritation.

She then asked him to lie down, which he did, and she finally tied his bound wrists to the dumbbell.

She crouched down next to him. “Are you comfortable?”

 _As much as I can be,_ he thought. “Yes,” he said.

“Are you ready to begin?” Gita asked.

“Yes.”

“Remember, think of Dante,” she told him. “What are his thoughts? How does he feel?” She gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ll be right here the entire time. The word if you need to stop?”

“Stop.”

“Good.” She got up and walked a few feet away. Joe closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, focused on every inhalation and exhalation until it slowed to approximate sleep. _You can do this,_ he told himself. _Dante wants Geno too. Use it. It’ll be fine._

“Action,” Gita said.

Dante woke to the feeling of hands on his right shoulder, pushing his body to face down against the mattress. His muscles briefly clenched tight with fear and he felt the hands pause slightly in recognition of his wakefulness. He started to turn his head to confirm it was Geno but was stopped by a hand against the side of his face: Geno’s hand. He sucked in a deep breath of his scent through his nose and then huffed out in surprise when the hand at his hip yanked down on his jeans. _He’ll never be able to get them off,_ Dante thought.

“Help me turn over,” Dante whispered. He felt hands roughly turning him over onto his back, and he saw Geno hovering above him. _Finally,_ Dante thought. _Fucking finally._

“Untie my hands,” he murmured.

“No,” came the bluntly worded response. Dante smiled dreamily at the response – _it always has to be a fight_ , he thought – and he saw momentary confusion pass over Geno’s face.

“Then take off my clothes,” he said. Geno scrambled to comply, pulling at the buckle on his jeans and yanking them off his body and then pulling his shirt up over his head. Dante looked up and saw…Nicolo, staring at Joe’s torso. It was something in the expression – the muscles of his face were more relaxed, and his eyes had none of Geno’s toughness – and it made him squirm a little. _What is he thinking?_ Joe wondered. Nicolo’s eyes jerked up to Joe’s at the movement and he closed his eyes and shook his head a little as if to clear it. When they opened again, he was Geno.

“Kiss me,” Joe whispered.

“No,” Geno said. He took him roughly by the hips and turned him over again before yanking him up onto his knees. Joe couldn’t hear what he did behind him, but he remembered from the storyboard that Nicolo would be miming putting on the condom and pouring lube in his ass. A real shiver ran through him at the thought, that even though he’d have something covering his ass while they filmed, Nicolo might mime it and think about doing it for real; might wonder if Joe would open for him. And of course he would.

 _Dante, you are Dante, Joe, you are Dante. Get it together._ Dante would moan at the sensation of the lube hitting his skin, so that’s what Joe did. He moaned again when Geno’s hips snapped into his own and bit his bottom lip when Geno’s trembling hands traced from his ass to his shoulders before sliding one hand into his hair and pulling slightly so that his head arched back.

Dante would think… _he’s inside of me, finally, finally, finally,_ as Geno’s hips sped up, moving in and out. He would think that it felt amazing; dirty and… _dirty_. No, Dante didn’t want just dirty; he wanted something more. Dante would feel that he needed to kiss Geno more than he needed his next breath. He would kiss him. Joe tensed up with the thought and Geno –Nicolo? - caught it.

“What’s wrong?” Geno – or Nicolo – said. They were off script.

“Nothing,” Joe said. _I love you and this doesn’t feel right,_ _is what Dante would think,_ thinks Joe. “Let me kiss you, please, Geno” he said simply. There was a pause, and then he was turned onto his back again, and Geno’s hands slid into his hair and his lips dropped onto Joe’s.

 _This is not real_ , Joe reminded himself, as he opened his mouth under Nicolo’s and accepted his tongue. _This is not real, it’s not real, it’s not real._ Joe kissed him back, but it was half-hearted and awkward, stunted by confusion and worry. _Oh, this is a disaster,_ Joe thought, and then panic began to creep in because he couldn’t seem to get rid of _himself_ for this scene.

“Dante,” Geno or Nicolo sighed into Joe’s mouth, before stretching up to untie his hands. He continued to rut up between his legs and he kissed him again, and Joe _hated it_. He was finally kissing Nicolo and it wasn’t actually him – or it was – but it _wasn’t,_ and it was nothing like what he wanted. Now that his hands were untied he had no idea what he was supposed to do with them so he let them drop to the mat before he remembered belatedly that he was supposed to wrap his arms around Geno as if forever, which he did.

“Scene,” said Gita from across the room.

Nico rolled off of him and sat a few feet away. Joe sat up and massaged at his wrists. They didn’t look at each other. _Fuck, that was…about as bad as I thought it would be,_ Joe thought. _At least I didn’t start crying._ Gita walked back over.

“For a first runthrough – good. I’ll speak with Joe first, please, Nicolo.” Gita looked to Joe for confirmation and he nodded. Joe watched as Nicolo stood and walked over to his bag, where he grabbed his water bottle and drank heavily.

Gita sat next to Joe and said quietly, “It was natural, generally. Well done. But do you feel there were improvements that could be made?”

“Yes,” Joe sighed.

“What do you feel those are?” she asked gently.

“Everything?” he said with a tight laugh. She waited for him to give her a real answer. “It was okay until – until kissing was introduced,” he continued, after a few tense seconds. She nodded in agreement. “I kept coming completely out of the scene.”

“Why do you think that is?” she asked.

There was understanding in her eyes, and Joe briefly thought, _does she know?_ , but he couldn’t possibly admit to their mutual attraction then, so he just shrugged and said, “I’ve never kissed someone while someone else is watching. Just got nervous.”

She hummed, and cocked her head slightly. “Do you feel that you will be able to get over these nerves the next time?”

Joe sighed heavily. “Yes,” he said, “I do. I can.”

“And do you feel comfortable trying again?”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

* * *

Of course it turned out that he could not get over his ‘nerves’. During the third run through, just before Nicolo was about to kiss him again, Joe squeezed his eyes shut and said, “Stop.”

Nicolo rolled off of him and Gita hurried over and untied his hands.

“Joe?” she quickly asked, crouching down to his level.

“Sorry,” he said, drawing his hands through his hair. _What a fucking disaster this is._

“Do not apologize,” she said shortly. “Are you feeling well?”

“I am. I’m just… I’m feeling overwhelmed. I know we have another hour, but I think I need to call it.”

Gita’s perceptive eyes roamed over his face. “Of course, Joe. That will be no problem.”

They called it.

* * *

Back in the safety of his hotel room, Joe dunked his head under the water of his now tepid bath and tried his best to objectively view his feelings and actions during rehearsal. He came back up dripping, water in his eyes, and laid his head back against the lip of the tub. Today had been - objectively - a complete failure, and a total mindfuck.

It was just too _weird,_ to fake kiss Nicolo. Or, to kiss him for real, but not as himself, but as Dante. And of course he wasn’t really kissing _Nicolo,_ he was kissing Geno… but, then again, it _was_ really Joe and it was really Nicolo - but it shouldn’t be - and he wanted to kiss him for _real_ too badly, and it was….not great. The whole situation was just…not great.

He sighed so deeply that the sound echoed around the tiled room.

The most pressing issue was, of course, how to get over it. Because today? Today had been _bad_ , he knew that, there had been nothing natural about his reactions or movements, he’d seen it in Gita’s and Nicolo’s eyes – he’d been so self-conscious that it was impossible to relax and sink into the character the way he normally could.

He felt that he did his best thinking in the bath, so he let his mind wander, watching the reflection of the water shimmering on the ceiling above him.

_You should just kiss him. Get it over with. You both want to._

Joe hummed at the thought – it had occurred to him before that it might actually make things _easier_ to act on their attraction, especially as he couldn’t apparently force it to go away, but Nicolo had been so adamant about not acting on it for the sake of the film. So they hadn’t acted on it...and now it was fucking up the movie.

Joe’s thoughts drifted back to rehearsal today, to the way Nicolo had completely dropped character when he’d yanked up Joe’s shirt. He wasn’t immune to it either. And if the fucking winner of the 2018 Golden Lion for Best Actor had a problem with acting around his attraction...

But he’d _just_ promised Nicolo that he wouldn’t keep flirting with him. What was it he’d said? _It won’t happen again, Nicolo, I swear._ He couldn’t say that and then turn around and propose that they…what? Make out for the sake of the movie?

His phone, which was siting on the marble vanity, dinged with a text. It was really past time to get out of the water anyways, so he stood and grabbed a towel, still thinking about how big of a clusterfuck this situation had turned into as he dried off.

He unlocked his phone and his breath immediately came a little shorter when he saw that it was a text from Nicolo. It read, _Hello Joe. I hope that you are doing well. Are you free for dinner this evening?_

Joe smiled at the completely charming phrasing. Grammatically correct text messages, what a wonder – normally Joe communicated solely in gifs. But, why would Nicolo want to get dinner? He bit his lip. _You’re getting fired_ , his brain sent down. No way – it had taken them months to cast Dante, and he was _good_ , he knew it. Today was just a…a weird blip. He probably just wants to discuss what happened. _Fuck, that’ll be awkward,_ thought his brain. For once, Joe agreed.

He hesitated too long about how to respond before just shooting over a succinct, _Yeah, I’m free._

 _Perfect. My place? 1900?_ Joe did a quick translation: 1900 meant 7 pm. It was 4:30 now. Also…his place? Why would he invite him to his place? _To fire you in private,_ his brain supplied. Fuck off, he thought back.

_Sure. Send me the address._

Joe locked his phone and looked at himself in the mirror. “You can do this,” he told himself. It would be an awkward conversation, but he was an adult, and a professional, and it would be okay.

He could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering - Sigur Ros has been the soundtrack the entire time. Give 'em a listen.


	9. Courage, Dear Heart

At about the same time that Joe began to worry about what he should wear to Nico’s for dinner, Nico set his phone down on the bathroom counter and cast a clear-eyed glance at himself in the mirror. He knew in his bones that he’d made the right decision, but he would need to be brave.

He stripped and turned the water in the shower on, the pipes groaning to life with a whine and then sputtering out ice-cold water. He waited a few moments until the pressure evened out and the water warmed up and then he stepped in. As he washed his hair, he thought back to that morning, when he’d awoken with Joe’s name still in his mouth.

The first thing he’d seen upon waking was the bottle of lube next to his head on the pillow. The first thing he’d thought of was Joe’s face from the night before. _I wish I could kiss you,_ whispered through his mind.

He’d closed his eyes, remembering. He’d fucked up last night. He’d known it as he’d turned him down, known it as he walked away, known it as he’d lied about why. Known it after the first orgasm, and the second.

He had told Joe that he didn’t want to act on their attraction because nothing had changed since that night Joe propositioned him next to the Trevi, but that wasn’t at all true. Things had changed _._ It wasn’t just lust drawing him to Joe any longer; he _liked_ him. It had been a long time since he’d felt like that. Four years.

The truth was that he wasn’t so much worried about the implications for the film any more (frankly, he thought that the chances that they started something up that ended badly during the two months of filming to be so small as to be dismissed entirely) as he was scared for himself.

He’d hoisted himself up to rest against the headboard and lit his first cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs and thanking the nicotine for the clarity it brought to him, because it was suddenly very clear that he was allowing his past to interfere with a possible future.

The ultimate truth – and he thanked his cigarette again when he realized it – was that he’d turned him down again because he was terrified of being left. His heart had enough cracks in it already.

Frowning at the thought, he’d stared up at the ceiling, absently noting the patterns in the whorls of the wood’s grain as he let his mind wander.

As a child he’d always been aware that he’d been _left._ Rejected – for whatever reason, possibly several good ones – by his parents, and it had made for a lonely childhood. He had mainly contented himself with solitary pursuits and occasional friendships with some of the other children, but of course, it was very difficult, to get to know someone, only to have them leave. Very difficult. Eventually he’d come to the conclusion that it was better to choose loneliness over the possibility of abandonment. Textbook fear of rejection, he knew, but still: True.

He had of course made and kept a few close friends since then – Andy, Book, Quynh – but they had lives of their own, and relationships – boyfriends – had been practically non-existent. He could lay some of the blame for that at the feet of his minor celebrity - he was _just_ famous enough to feel wary about meeting new people, always on guard about what might be reported, since Italy’s media wasn’t exactly kind to people like him, but, really, it was due to what had gotten him through his childhood: loneliness was preferable to rejection. Attachment hurt.

So he’d lurched from one short relationship to the next, never investing, until he met Andrei, and all of that loneliness seemed to disappear, like a bad dream forgotten upon awaking. Andrei was kind, and attentive, and blindingly handsome, and he was the first person to ever make Nico feel like he was really worthy of love. Nico had been able to accept his slight imperfections - their somewhat lackluster sex life; the fact that he wasn’t especially _fun -_ because Andrei made him happy, and of course that is very hard to find.

What had been much more difficult to accept was that Andrei was never going to come out. Their relationship had taken place solely in their homes, entirely in secret, and Nico understood _why_ – it would have meant death to Andrei’s career – but Nico – possibly the secret child of some secret couple – had no interest in ever being a secret again. He’d never had love before, and he wanted to claim it, wanted it acknowledged.

So, really, he should have seen the end coming – and many years later he could acknowledge that it would have naturally happened sooner or later - but he was still shocked when Andrei admitted to cheating. A few weeks later he was shocked again to discover that his ex was engaged to the woman he’d cheated on Nico with, by walking past a newsstand and seeing it plastered on the front fucking page of a tabloid. That, he felt, he could not reasonably be expected to have seen coming.

That was four years ago, now, and it was his understanding that Andrei and his wife had two beautiful daughters. He wished them well.

After Andrei he’d rebuilt every wall, and each one was stronger and better than before. Barriers in place, he’d then done a masterful job of convincing himself that he wasn’t especially lonely, and that his handful of close friends and his work was all that he needed. All he wanted.

Until Joe.

Joe, who wished he could kiss him. Joe, who made him laugh and looked at him like he was worth knowing, and made Nico want to be known again.

Joe, who was still completely heterosexual in the eyes of the public and his family, just as Andrei had been.

 _But it’s been years since you’ve wanted to both fuck someone and get to know them,_ he reminded himself. _Don’t lose this. Don’t waste it_.

By the time he’d poured his first cup of coffee that morning, he’d come to the conclusion that the possibility of future pain paled in comparison with the pleasure of Joe’s attention, and what it might bring. So, he would need to be brave, like Joe had been – like Joe was all the time. He would –steadily - allow himself to know, and be known in return. He’d thought that he might ask him to meet for coffee the next morning. It would be a slow start, but it would be a start nonetheless.

For just a moment he’d let himself think about those hands, that blinding smile. For a breath, the thought of Joe’s mouth on his.

Then, they’d had rehearsals.

He shut off the water and grabbed a towel, drying himself off before wandering into his bedroom to change.

The rehearsal had forced him to change his slow-and-steady plan from that morning, once it became apparent that Joe was – no other way to put it – _fucked up_ about having to kiss him. In the first run through he’d attributed Joe’s fumbling to Nico’s mistake - that momentary distraction when Nico had seen all of that burnished skin again. The second run through was when he’d realized that it must be something to do with kissing him. This was confirmed by the third run through, when Joe had practically frozen up beneath him before finally, blessedly, calling it.

Nico slipped a black t-shirt over his head and grabbed a grey button up, wanting to be as comfortable as possible for what was sure to be an uncomfortable conversation. Because…he really didn’t know what he would say, once Joe was here. _Hello. I apologize for turning you down, I shouldn’t have done it, I think that I really like you, but that scares me?_ Or, _Hello. It seems you might have feelings for me, based on your behavior, please don’t break my heart?_ Or, just _Kiss me_ , _please, but we need to take it slow,_ and skip dinner entirely?

No. At the very least he would serve him food. He gathered the ingredients for pasta, dumped them into a bowl, and set to work kneading.

He _liked_ Joe, and he wanted to fuck him, but he would have to continue to work closely with him for months and that made for difficult terrain. If he were just a handsome stranger or even a handsome co-worker it would be one thing, but the entirety of the film that he’d worked so hard to make hung on their chemistry, and they had too much of it: their attraction wasn’t faked, it was _real._ He’d thought – hoped – that they would be able to use it for the cameras, but if today was any indication, that would not be happening. Or, at least, not the way it was now. This was delicate. He couldn’t fuck it up, but he had no idea how.

They would need to take it slow.

They needed to talk about it – all of it. Their feelings, the film, how they intersected, and what they should do. They needed to be rational, sane, and sober. He drove his fingers into the dough and flour puffed up onto his forearms.

They could do this.

* * *

Joe rang Nico’s bell two minutes past the agreed upon time, and Nico buzzed him in, feeling edgy and dry-mouthed. He cast a final glance over his flat and found it satisfactory – well, no, not satisfactory, _sparkling clean._ A few seconds later he heard a heavy knock at his door. He breathed in deeply, feeling the air in his lungs. _Calm, Nico, he is just a man_ , he told himself. He breathed out. He opened the door, and waved him in, hoping that he looked casual.

“Hi,” Joe said. “I brought wine. I wasn’t sure…but it seemed like the polite thing to do.” Nico took the bottle from him and examined the label. He knew this wine - it was expensive.

“I believe that I recall you saying that you have thirty thousand dollars in debt from school, yes?”

Joe laughed brightly, short and quick, as he shrugged off his leather jacket. “Damn Nicolo, are you chastising me for gifting you with an extremely nice bottle of wine?”

He knew the smile that tugged at his lips was bashful, in direct contrast with Joe’s exuberance. “Perhaps,” he said.

Joe chuckled again. “Well, you caught me – I’m terrible with money. I really should have paid off the debt by now but I just keep finding other things to spend it on. Like fancy wine.” Nico watched as Joe took in his flat and felt unaccountably shy. “This is a great place, by the way.” He looked up to the ancient beams overhead. “Cool ceiling.”

“Thank you,” Nico said, walking to the kitchen to grab a wine key. Joe followed and settled into one of the stools at the concrete topped center island. “I bought it for the ceiling. And the floors.” Nico set a glass before Joe and uncorked the wine, watching Joe look to his feet.

“Herringbone. Sweet. Original?”

“Indeed.” Nico poured a glass for Joe and then a glass for himself. _Just the one glass,_ he told himself. _It will help with the nerves._ “Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together and tasted the wine in a suddenly awkward silence. Now that the moment was here, Nico found he still had absolutely no idea what to say. _I would like to fuck you and learn more about you, but slowly because I’m worried I’ll fall in love with you and you’ll break my heart?_ A bit too truthful, that.

Joe swallowed and twirled his glass, opening his mouth and then closing it; the movements of someone about to say something important. All that came out was, “So, you’re…making pasta?” He gestured towards the pasta machine clamped on the countertop and the noodles nested together on the floury countertop.

“Linguine, yes. I was not sure if you eat pork, so I held off on finishing.”

Joe smiled quickly and shifted in his seat. “That’s very thoughtful, Nicolo. I do, though, so you can prepare it however you’d like. There’s very little I won’t eat.”

He began prepping ingredients, setting the meat in the pan and breaking it up with a wooden spoon. “What don’t you like?”

He looked back over his shoulder at Joe, who was visibly thinking of the question, squeezing one eye shut and perhaps biting the inside of his cheek. “Octopus,” he finally said.

“A shame. They are delicious.”

Joe chuckled at his answer, and Nico felt the usual glow of pride and happiness that accompanied making him laugh. _Oh, this will be an uncomfortable conversation,_ he thought, _maybe I shouldn’t even bring it up, we can just have a nice evening._ He began sautéing onions.

“They’re just so smart, Nicolo! They can solve engineering problems and they play with each other, and humans. I feel bad eating them.”

Nico looked at the pork sizzling away in the pan. “Pigs are supposed to be quite intelligent though, yes?”

Joe winced. “I _know_ ,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Nico said. “I am just glad to know that you do not like it. I will remember, for…” He swallowed down the last of the sentence, which would have been: _for future dinners._ He turned back to the stove and busied himself with sautéing. He noted that the pasta was almost ready.

“So you’re a chef, then?” Joe asked, apparently ignoring Nico’s unfinished sentence.

“I enjoy cooking, yes. One of my hobbies.”

“Very cool. That’s one thing I’ve never really enjoyed. I eat a lot of take out.”

“That’s allowed,” he said, as he drained the pasta. “Truthfully, I never really enjoyed it that much until last year. Italy had very strict lockdowns. There was not much else to do.”

He grabbed two bowls and plated up the meal, carrying both to the table. Joe moved from his perch at the island to the seat across from Nicolo at the table. He took a bite of his pasta and groaned, and the sound went straight to Nico’s head.

He took a nervous sip of his wine.

“This is amazing, Nicolo, seriously. I can’t believe you just whipped this up.”

“Thank you,” Nico responded, taking a bite. It had turned out well.

“So you learned how to cook during quarantine? Good use of your time. I did some painting, but mainly I played _a lot_ of video games.”

Nico smiled. “I knew how to cook before the pandemic – I learned that I loved it, during.”

“Ah – an important distinction. I learned to love my Playstation, so I think you’ve still got me beat.” He smiled at Nico, easy as anything. Nico’s stomach began to twist in knots. How was he supposed to start this conversation?

“So,” Joe finally said. “What’s the occasion?” _Thank you, Joe, for initiating._

“I…” he paused and looked into Joe’s warm brown eyes. “I thought that we should perhaps talk about today.”

Joe sighed, putting his fork deliberately. “Yeah. Kind of figured that was the case.” He swallowed some wine and looked up, crossing his arms across his chest.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence, Joe looking up, Nico looking at Joe. He knew that he should be the one to speak first; after all, he’d promised himself that he would be the brave one, this time.

“I realized, this morning, that I lied to you last night,” he began, “about why we shouldn’t act on what is between us.” Joe’s gaze snapped to his, and he felt himself faltering. _Courage, Nico,_ he reminded himself. “I told you that nothing had changed, but that is not true. Of course things have changed since we first met, and it was not fair of me to give the excuse of the film. The truth is that I am scared of…” he trailed off and cleared his throat, his gaze finally dropping from Joe’s – it was too difficult to get this out with those keen eyes on his. “I’m scared of you. I like you, Joe, and that makes me very nervous.”

He paused and looked up to Joe’s intriguing, open face. His expression had changed to something new while he’d been talking. He looked…determined.

Nico took in another deep breath. _He deserves to hear all of this._ “And I am telling you this now, because I believe that you may feel similarly, and that it was affecting you during rehearsals. I do not want you to suffer because I am scared.”

And that was all he had to say. In the absence of a cigarette, he chewed at his bottom lip and stared at his rapidly cooling pasta, letting the silence linger.

“May I hold your hand?”

Nico blinked up at Joe, a thousand questions and thoughts buzzing in his head all instantly quieted by the soft look he found on his face.

“You may.”

He laid his hand palm up on the table, and watched as Joe lightly slid his fingertips along the length of his fingers and down his palm and just that – just that hint of skin on skin contact – sent a shiver down his spine.

 _From just his hand on mine_ , Nico thought, as he curled his fingers up and Joe linked their digits together. He felt the hardened callouses on the pads of his fingers, and the softness of his palm, the lines that drew across it.

Nico gave his hand a faint squeeze, and when he felt him squeeze back, a calm like he hadn’t felt in - _in years, it had been years -_ descended upon him.

“Thank you,” Joe said.

“For what?”

“For letting me hold your hand.” Nico looked up from their linked hands and saw Joe’s cheeky smile. “And for everything you just said. I do feel similarly, and it was fucking with me today.” He rubbed Nico’s knuckles with his thumb. “Can we move somewhere more comfortable for this conversation?”

They left the table, reluctantly parting hands and abandoning their half-eaten meals and half-full glasses of wine. They sank into the leather of one of the sofas in his living room, and turned towards each other. Joe again took Nico’s hand.

“So. What do we do about this?” Joe asked, gazing down at where they touched.

“I am not sure. I had hoped to take this slowly, but today forced the conversation.”

“We can go slow,” Joe said. “I can be good.”

 _But I do not want you to be good,_ came the thought, unbidden. _No, no – be smart_.

“I appreciate that, Joe. But...if you still wish to kiss me, I would like that.” Joe’s eyes snapped up to Nico’s, and he swallowed. “It might help in rehearsal,” he said weakly.

Joe hummed. “Well, anything for the film,” he said, with an ironically lifted eyebrow that spoke volumes. Joe held Nico’s stare, those hot, dark eyes taking him immediately back to that first audition, and what he’d promised with that gaze. He edged closer. _He’s going to kiss me,_ he realized. _Thank God._

Joe’s palms cradled his jaw and his thumbs caressed his cheeks, his eyes darting between his. Nico’s pulse raced and his breath drew short as Joe tipped Nico’s face slowly to his. He watched him swallow. Hesitant.

“Kiss me,” Nico whispered.

“You’re sure?”

Nico nodded, and Joe lowered his mouth to his, just a soft press of his lips before he pulled back and studied his face, as if still unsure.

“Please, Joe –“ He was cut off by Joe’s mouth on his again, and all thoughts fled as he sighed into the kiss. It felt like the room dissolved around them – that there was nothing in the world except for where Joe’s mouth met his, his soft lips and beard. With a sense of wonder – _I can touch him now -_ he set his hands on Joe’s chest and felt his steady heartbeat beneath the hard muscles, so vital and _alive_. He drew his hands up to his shoulders and twined his arms around him to tug him even closer, and at the movement – at his surrender - Joe’s hesitancy disappeared. His lips parted, inviting Nico’s to do the same, and his tongue swept in lightly before shading into deep sweeps – a hot, curious exploration that pulled the breath from Nico’s lungs with a shocked moan. Joe’s hands slid into his hair and pulled and Nico felt himself go boneless, _yes, yes, yes,_ pounding in his head.

At the sound, something shifted in Joe. He cocked his jaw and tightened his fingers in Nico’s hair and licked the inside of his mouth before biting gently at his bottom lip. Nico surrendered further to his bossy, needy tongue; letting himself indulge in the feeling of his aggression. He wanted to wallow in it, the feeling of Joe’s tightly leashed desire after so much longing.

Nico’s hands dropped to Joe’s hips and their legs tangled as Joe moved to straddle him, and Nico liked this angle even more - being underneath Joe, pressed against the sofa, overwhelmed by how much he was making him feel, from nothing more than a kiss, from nothing more than his hands running through his hair. They tasted each other deeply, steadily, one of Joe’s hands moving down to Nico’s throat to thumb along his jaw. He was restless above him, his thighs and hips pumping gently, bringing their middles together. He felt Joe’s hard cock beneath his jeans and imagined Joe taking his hand, running it between their bodies, and pressing it insistently against himself, forcing him to make him come.

At the thought, with Joe’s tongue stroking his, Nico felt his heartbeat in his head and the blood rushing in his ears and pounding in his cock; arousal winding tight enough that he broke away with a gasp. Both looked shocked, as they stared at each other; the same sort of shock that came from standing near a lightning strike – at completely unexpected and instantaneous electricity. It buzzed through Nico still, and he had to remind himself that he’d wanted to go slow for… for a reason that entirely escaped him at that moment.

Joe dropped his forehead to Nico’s and he huffed - the tiniest sound of disbelief. “Wow.”

“Yes,” Nico responded. All he was capable of.

“If I’d known kissing you would feel that good I would’ve done it days ago,” sighed Joe. Nico chuckled and pressed his lips to Joe’s, but, briefly. He was beginning to remember why he’d wanted to go slow: it hurt less to fall from a shorter height. Already, he felt too high. Joe chased the kiss as Nico pulled away and they smiled at each other.

Joe draped his arms around Nico’s shoulders and drew his fingers through the silky strands, drawing a soft groan from Nico’s throat.

“So,” Joe said. “What now?”’


	10. bleu céleste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most gigantic thank you in the world to everyone commenting and kudos'ing and subscribing. It feels like bribery to say this, but it really is stupidly motivating when I get these little reminders that there are people out in the world, reading this thing, and enjoying it, and that I should probably write instead of, like, watching Schitt's Creek for the fifth time. I truly appreciate it. 
> 
> Enough from me. Let's see about 'what now'...

Joe studied Nico’s face below his as he waited for his answer, thinking that he was the most handsome man he’d ever seen. Those eyes were closed and his lips were curved into the slightest smile and he looked…dreamy. From a kiss. But what a fucking kiss it had been – he hoped more than anything that Nico would open his eyes and say, _What_ _now? Now you bend me over this couch and fuck me._

That wouldn’t happen. He wanted to go slow, and Joe would respect that, but now that kissing was on the table… Joe pressed his lips to the beauty mark next to Nico’s lips that was half covered by scruff. _Who even_ has _a beauty mark?_ he wondered. Those eyes, that mouth, an Italian accent, and a fucking beauty mark. Ridiculous.

Nicolo’s eyes finally opened under his perusal and caught his gaze. “What?” he asked.

“Just contemplating your beauty,” Joe responded with a wide smile.

“My beauty?”

“Yes. Your beauty mark, specifically.” He laid another soft kiss against it and heard Nico’s sigh.

“I believe it is called a mole,” he said.

“No, Nico, when it’s in that spot, it’s a beauty mark. You’re like Marilyn Monroe.”

“There are a few differences between myself and Marilyn.”

“None that I can think of.”

Nico laughed at that. “You are ridiculous.”

“And yet. You’re there, and I’m here.” He lowered his lips to hover over Nico’s ear. He whispered, “So you must like it, at least a little bit,” and gently bit at the lobe. Nico expelled a shaky breath and he squeezed Joe’s hips.

“Mmmm. So you like that too?” He delicately licked the shell of his ear and then bit down again on the lobe, harder this time. He was rewarded with Nico's eyes squeezing shut against a shuddering moan. _Okay,_ he thought. _He definitely_ _likes that_.

 _He wants to go slow, Joseph._ He sighed and reeled himself in, sitting back slightly but with his hands still in Nico’s hair, watching Nico as he licked his lips, with none of his usual focus. _He doesn’t know what he wants. But you do._ The thought came unbidden, his hindbrain trying to hijack him again.

No. He’d already been so pushy this past week, and there were only so many polite deferrals he could take. Anything more would need to come from Nico. He put his hands to his chest and said, “We could finish that delicious pasta you worked so hard on.”

Nico chuckled slightly – more an exhalation of breath than a laugh. With his eyes still closed, he said, “I did not put much work into it.”

“Oh, so now you’re bragging?” he teased.

“No, it’s just fact. But if you think that it was a lot of work, that is fine - I just wanted to impress you.” He opened his eyes and Joe saw that he was telling the truth. He sat back entirely as they gazed at each other, the warm, almost dopily said words running through him. _Are you sure you can’t give him a blowjob? As a reward for those words? Show him how impressed you are._

Instead of dropping to his knees he stuck with his earlier resolve. “Well, consider me impressed. Now, come on,” he said, sliding off of him. He held out his hand and Nico grabbed it, groaning as he peeled himself off of the couch. Nico’s hand stayed warm in his as they walked back to the kitchen table and Nico sat in his seat from before. Joe looked down at their linked hands. “I guess I have to let go of you, if I’m to resume my earlier seat.”

“A shame,” Nico said with a smile at the same time he removed his hand from Joe’s. He tried not to be disappointed, reminding himself that Nico wanted to go slow. He had a feeling that it would be a constant reminder from now on.

He sat across the table from Nico and said, “So. How do you want to handle this?”

“This?”

“Yes, this. The fact that I’ll want to kiss you all the time, now that I know how it feels.” He almost blushed at his words. _Reel it in Al-Kaysani_.

Nico did blush, looking up at him from heavy lids, his hair slightly obscuring one of his eyes.

“Well, the only people that I would tell about this are working on the film, so for now, I would like to keep it between us. Though Iam not as worried about how it will affect the film, I am sure that they would be.” He tucked his hair behind his ear and set the full force of his gaze on Joe’s and he knew his next exhale was shaky. _This guy should come with a fucking warning label stamped to his forehead,_ he thought. _Warning: Do not look upon directly, hazardous to heart._

“That’s fine with me.” He took a bite of pasta. Time to steer them back to something like normal. “Who are the people you would tell?”

“Andy, Booker, Quynh.”

“Booker?”

“Ah – Sebastien Le Livre. Casting director. You met him at the chemistry test, do you remember?”

“I remember.” _I remember thinking I’d do anything to make you laugh_ , he thought. _And now I’ve made you laugh at least a dozen times. Progress._ “Booker… because his last name means book?”

Nico smiled. “Yes. Quynh gave him the name. Very creative, I know. He reads constantly.” He took a sip of his wine. “Do you speak French?”

“Not perfectly, no, but I can get by. My parents switch between French and Arabic at home.”

“Where are they from, originally? I don’t believe you’ve told me. If you have, I apologize.”

“No, don’t apologize; I don’t think I’ve told you either. They’re from Tunisia, in north Africa?”

“I know it.”

“Ah – I never want to assume. Most Americans couldn’t find it on a map.”

“Well it is only across the sea, here.”

“Mm. Good point. How do you know them, by the way? Andy, Quynh, Sebastien?” He took another sip of his wine and tried not to pat himself on the back too hard for doing such an excellent job of moving them back into charted territories. _You’re talking about family and friends and eating food again! Well done, Joe. It’s been two minutes since you’ve thought about how he’d look with his thick lips stretched wide around your cock._ Ah, damn. He mentally sighed. Reset the counter.

“I’ve known Andy the longest. She played my girlfriend in a short film I was in when I was perhaps…twenty? Twenty-one?”

“In America?”

“America? No. What makes you ask that?”

“She’s American, right?”

Nico laughed, before wiping his hand across his mouth as if to stifle it. “She’s not. But I will be telling her that you thought she was.”

“She’s not?” He was genuinely shocked.

“No. She is from Romania originally, but she mainly grew up in Greece. Like most of us, she learned English from watching American t.v. She just picked up the accent better than most.”

Mind blown. “That is fascinating, Nicolo. I one-hundred percent thought that she was American.”

“Well, she is not American, but she is fascinating. You know, she can fly a helicopter?”

“Seriously?”

Nico smiled, leaning forward onto his forearms as he continued to talk animatedly about Andy with his hands, and Joe tried to pay attention, he really did, but his entire being was suddenly zeroed in on Nico’s hands. Joe’s eyes traced them as they moved, from his strong looking wrists to the tips of his wide, square-tipped fingers. _God he’s got great hands,_ he thought, accidentally, and then, _please let me feel those fingers inside of me soon_. The image of Nico peering up at him from his knees with Joe’s cock in his mouth flashed in front of his eyes yet again – now, though, he mentally added one of Nico’s hands between his legs and pressing _in_. Fuck. Reset the timer again. He’d lasted maybe one whole minute, this time.

“…you know?”

 _Ah, shit, what did he just say?_ Better try for agreeable, though he had no idea what he was about to agree to. “Yes?”

Nico’s face showed bemusement – his eyebrows drawn in and lowered slightly, with a small, bit-back smile. “Were you listening?”

“I…truthfully, no. I was distracted.”

“By what?”

“Your hands.” _Joe…_ sighed his brain. _It’s just the truth_ , he shot back, defensively.

“Ah.” Nico curled one of the hands in question against the side of his smiling mouth and contemplated Joe from across the table. Joe took a nervous sip of wine. “What about my hands?”

 _Do not say what you’re thinking, Joe._ He said, “They’re nice.”

“Only nice? I thought you were a poet.” Nico cocked his head to the side and pursed his mouth before gently sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

Joe realized then, with startling clarity, that Nico was trying to _goad_ him. Into…what? Saying something he shouldn’t? Kissing him again? Fucking him? Nico had _just_ said he wanted to go slow. _He doesn’t know what he wants_ , whispered through his mind again, but rationally so, this time.

Joe finished his glass and crossed his arms at his chest. “You’re being cheekier than I expected.”

“Am I?” He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Perhaps I just want to hear what you have to say about my hands.”

“And I thought that you wanted to go slow.”

Something like clarity came back to Nico then, unconsciously read in the slight widening of his eyes and the tightening of his lips. “Yes, I did. I do. Apologies.”

 _You want to apologize, Nicolo? Get on your knees. Make me come_. The thought surprised him, but it also felt…right, based on whatever it was that was buzzing between them. It was also a completely insane thing to say. “It’s fine, Nicolo, I’m just trying to understand what you want.”

Nico closed his eyes and a blush spread from his heavy stubble to his cheeks as he swallowed. When he opened them again, whatever had been there before was gone. “I want to go slow.”

Joe nodded in agreement. “Okay. We can do that.”

It felt strained, then, and Joe was at a loss as to how to proceed. He wanted to kiss the strain away, but wasn’t sure if that constituted “slow” – probably not. Should he just… leave? Maybe. It seemed impossible to not want Nico if he was near him, and Joe had never been the type to deny himself if he wanted something. What was the point?

“Would you like to meet for coffee, tomorrow morning? We could walk to rehearsal together,” Nicolo finally asked, dispelling the strain and instantly grinding Joe’s anxiously whirring gears to a halt.

“I would,” he said with a smile. _And that is my cue to leave – dinner is done, wine is finished, we have plans tomorrow._ He stood and pushed his chair under the table at the same time Nico stood too. “This has been a lovely evening, thank you for inviting me. And for the food, which was delicious.” He sounded stilted to his own ears. _Thank you for kissing the breath out of me, please let me know when we can do that again_ , was what he was thinking.

He eyed Nico standing at the door with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he shrugged on his jacket. “You’ll text me when and where for tomorrow?”

Nico nodded and fiddled slightly with the doorknob, looking pensive.

Something about Nico felt _off_ somehow. He walked over and laid a hand on his elbow. “You okay?” he asked.

Nico caught his gaze and Joe had just enough time to think, _he’s going to kiss me_ before he felt Nico's mouth on his. Joe sighed into a moan as their lips and tongues met, the instant arousal shocking him just as surely as the contact itself. He felt Nico's pleasure and relief in his lips against Joe's, in his punched out sigh and his tight grip on Joe’s jacket, but he kept it brief - just enough of a kiss for Joe to feel dizzy with it before Nico pulled away. His verdigris eyes were shaded more towards green under half closed lids; his mouth parted on a sigh as his tongue licked his lips. Coy desire was writ large on his fucking gorgeous face.

He smiled at whatever he saw in Joe’s expression. “I did not want to let you leave without doing that one more time,” he said, and gave him one more gentle kiss for good measure.

If Joe’s feet touched the ground on his walk home, he was hard-pressed to remember it.

* * *

The next morning at just past nine fifteen, the sight of Nico walking next to him on a bridge crossing the Tiber, with Rome in the background, on a gorgeous winter day, launched Joe’s heart into his throat.

This morning, Nico’s eyes were blue. No, not blue. Cerulean. _Bleu c_ _é_ _leste._ Heaven found in a color. If he were to plunge into a blue period a la Picasso, Joe thought, it would not be brought on by grief, but, rather, by the insanity of trying to get that goddamn color right. But the way he felt just then, as those eyes turned to look at him – he thought that he would gladly spend until the end of his days trying to figure it out. Maybe he already was in that blue period. Only time would tell.

They’d gotten coffee beforehand, at a little place that – Nico told him – catered more towards international clients, and was thus less inclined to be assholes about to-go cups, which was – apparently - a decidedly un-Italian thing to request.

And then they’d walked, talking about everything and nothing in between, until they reached the end of the bridge, and Nico turned and asked him, “How are you feeling about rehearsal today?”

“You mean, will I have a breakdown like yesterday?” Joe threw a casual smile over his shoulder to let Nico know he wasn’t offended. “I feel much better about it, now. I have this great acting coach, you see.” _Flirtation is okay. Right?_

“Oh?” he responded with a slightly cocked brow and a smile hidden by the rim of his coffee cup as he took a sip. “And what did he teach you?”

“The fine art of kissing someone until they forget to breathe.” Nico straight up _grinned_ at that, before quickly looking away, his wide smile practically killing him with pure, uncut happiness, and Joe thought, a little manically, that he wanted to snort that shit up every day for the rest of his life. He’d die with no sinuses, but it might be worth it.

“Hmm. That does not sound very professional, Joe.”

“Oh, it’s really not. But he’s incredibly good-looking, so it’s okay.”

Nico smiled again, but it was more tempered than before. “Are you feeling better about rehearsals, really?”

“Yes, I really am.” He briefly considered saying something to the effect of _but I’d feel even better about it if we had sex too_ , but stopped himself.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. He opened the door that let them into the gym and as Joe walked past Nico stopped him with a hand to his arm, whispering, “But, you should still plan to have more practice with your coach.” He looked him dead in the eyes and Joe would have sworn on a bible that his voice dropped a little lower when he said sternly, “I want perfection in this film, Joe,” and if _that_ didn’t send a shiver down his spine and the blood to rush towards his cock, he truly didn’t know what would. _I’ll give you perfection_ , he thought. _You’ll see._

* * *

Gita actually clapped when they finished recording the run through. “Very well done,” she said. “I hope that you don’t mind me saying this, but it was _much_ better than yesterday. Very natural.” Joe pointedly did not look at Nico and he could tell that Nico did not look at him when he said with a smile, “Good. Just needed the break, I guess.”

* * *

“So, Joe, do you have any final feelings about your hair?” Andy asked. She was leaning against the long mirrored counter that ran along the length of the wall. Make up, curling irons, blow dryers and approximately five thousand other items Joe couldn’t put a name to were scattered behind her. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

He looked at himself in the mirror and tried to imagine himself with no beard and no hair, as they’d discussed. He hadn’t been without hair in years – the last time was after an _extremely_ ill-advised run in with blonde hair dye in college - but Dante was supposed to look tough, and when they’d presented the idea of just shaving it all off to him, he’d been game. But now…

“Nico, what do you think?” He saw Andy’s eyebrows raise slightly and immediately realized he’d called him Nico instead of Nicolo. _But that’s fine. Surely a lot of people call him Nico?_ Her slightly narrowed eyes told him maybe not.

Nico wandered over and stood behind the chair, looking him over. “I think that we should still lose the beard. The hair…” he sighed. “It is a shame to lose these curls, but I also think that it should be shorter.” He turned to the woman who would be doing the honors – Kahina, who’d told Joe in Arabic that her family was Moroccan so his hair would be in ‘good hands’, and he’d agreed with her – and told her something in Italian.

“What’d you say?” Joe asked.

“I told her to give you a mohawk,” Nico responded.

“A…mohawk?” Surely he misheard.

“Yes. You have seen Taxi Driver, no? I think that it would work very well.”

Joe sat open mouthed and tried to adjust to the idea of Dante with a mohawk. He really didn’t think it would work, but Andy hadn’t said anything, so she must agree, and presumably they’d discussed it with Quynh, and Nico…Nico was smiling slyly and cocking an eyebrow at him. Realization dawned. “You’re fucking with me.” He sighed and then laughed in relief and Nico’s smile broadened. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. What did you actually tell her?”

“To leave a few inches. There should be enough of your hair to hold onto.”

And _of course_ that made Joe think back to last night and the feeling of Nico’s hands running along his scalp; made him think of one day sliding into or onto Nico and being forced to _stay_ by greedy hands in his hair. Joe was reasonably sure Nico thought along the same lines, based on the look on his face.

“So,” Andy said, interrupting the moment. Joe looked over to her and tried to school his features into whatever ‘just professionally discussing what my hair should look like with the co-executive producer very professionally’ looked like. “Heavy stubble, plus two or three inches up top?”

“Yes,” Nico said.

“All right, let me call Quynh.” She fiddled with her phone for a second and Joe heard her pick up. “Hey Quynh – you’re on speaker. Just want final confirmation on Joe’s hair.”

“All right, go on.” It sounded like she was outside based on the wind and bird chatter, and Joe remembered that she was already on set, which was somewhere in the mountains.

“We’re bringing the beard down to a heavy stubble as we discussed, but we’re going to leave some up top. Two or three inches. Enough hair for Nico to hold on to.” She shot a wry look at Nico from across the room. “His words.”

“Quynh, you know that hair-pulling is part of the two sex scenes we’ve finalized so far,” Nico said calmly. Joe briefly wondered at his ability to stay cool under obvious scrutiny but then he remembered – _oh, right, he’s_ literally _a respected actor_.

“Yes,” she responded. “Gita just sent over the second scene. It looks great.”

“Right. So, there needs to be some hair. No buzzcut.”

There was a brief pause and Joe could practically hear Quynh thinking it through over the phone. “I agree. Approved.”

“Perfect,” said Andy. “Talk to you soon.” Joe heard Quynh’s ‘ _ciao_ ’ from the other side, and Andy hung up. She crossed her legs and arms, still leaning against the counter. “All right then. Let’s see what you look like under that beard, Joe.”


	11. Promises

The problem with Joe’s haircut, Nico realized three days later, as he observed him from across the table in the smoky bar, was that it did what it was supposed to do. Normally, such a thing would not be a problem – of course, the very _point_ of hair and makeup was to transform the actor into the character – but, in Nico’s opinion, it had worked rather too well on Joe. As planned - and despite the now near constant presence of those fucking dimples, which should make him look soft, but did not - he now presented as someone one might be a bit hesitant to walk past in a dark alley. Tough, per his character’s description. Joe with a thick beard and curling hair falling over his forehead was already a menace; this version felt perilous to his sanity – or, at the very least, his self-control.

“Still looking good, Joe,” Andy said, narrowing her eyes and lighting a cigarette. “You look like you could kick someone’s ass.”

“Coming from you that means a lot,” Joe responded with a smile. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like a mercenary?”

She cocked an eyebrow and blew smoke in his direction. “Who says I’m not?”

He laughed - short, sharp, once – in a way that Nico was beginning to recognize as his ‘you got me’ laugh. He had many different laughs, and discovering each new one felt like a minor miracle – a thought, he was well aware, that was far beyond what he should be feeling at this stage.

Joe’s gaze caught his. “What do you think, Nicolo?” Mischief sparkled in his eyes. _I think that I want you to push me to my knees and make me suck your cock,_ he thought.

“Very good,” he stated, taking a sip of his drink. He met Joe’s eyes for the barest second and felt sure that Joe could read his mind; that he could somehow reach inside his thoughts and extract his desires. “Perfect.”

“You know,” Booker said, leaning in to be heard over the general din of the space, “she really might be a mercenary. I saw her kick the shit out of someone who tried to steal her purse a few years ago.”

Andy smiled as if thinking upon a fond memory. “Yeah, that was good.”

“What happened?” Joe asked her.

Nico lit up a cigarette and settled back against the leather of the sofa for the story, which he’d heard a dozen times, and let his mind and eyes wander.

As was often the case at this particular bar, it was full of beautiful alternative types; there were many full sleeve tattoos and unusual haircuts and queer couples. Of course, none of them were as beautiful as Joe. He narrowed his eyes at a pretty woman with bright pink hair who kept throwing assessing glances at Joe, feeling unaccountably possessive. _Joe wants me, not you_ , he thought, taking another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke center him. The thought – or, the pettiness of the thought – was what made him realize that he was drunk.

When they’d arrived at the Argot, the bartenders had immediately sent over complimentary shots to their group, which consisted of about a dozen members of cast and crew that had decided to stick around after a celebratory dinner to mark the end of pre-production.

This being one of the hipper bars in Rome, it wasn’t just a _shot_ , it was closer to a tiny cocktail, and Nico figured they must have sent it over because they recognized him and he didn’t want to be impolite, so he’d said “to your health” and finished it in one go. He’d had the second and the third they’d sent over too. Between those shots, his second whiskey cocktail – which he currently sipped – and his regrettably low alcohol tolerance, he was feeling the effects. He was also beginning to feel that he _should_ regret drinking so much – though he really did not - because with every sip it became easier and easier to forget why he'd ever wanted to go slowly with Joe. He put his lips around his cigarette and sucked while watching Joe talk to Booker, a barely unconscious imitation of what he wished he were doing.

 _Because when we kiss..._ He touched his lips involuntarily, staring at Joe’s. It had been three days of increasingly desperate contact; snatched before and after rehearsals, after the final _final_ fittings, and this afternoon, when Nico had pulled Joe into a closet before the final read-through with the entire cast. Every time felt like a revelation, like the clouds parting from the sun to show him – so brightly – how good just _kissing_ could feel. How hot Joe’s hands simply roaming over and under his shirt and sliding into his hair made him. And if kissing Joe could feel so good, how would his hands feel? His mouth? His ass? And how would it feel to have Joe inside his own body….? Greedy neediness spread through him at the thought – desire blooming wide and then clenching tight on his lungs and his cock. He’d _never_ felt like this. He wanted more. Fuck his heart – it could withstand a little pain, if it came to it.

Joe said something that made the group burst into laughter. Nico finished his drink and rejoined the conversation.

* * *

Two hours and three drinks later (all at Book’s behest – “It’s a party, _mon ami_ , you can’t go home yet! Here, have another.”) the group poured out of the bar and into the street, hugging and waving goodbye. He looked at his phone and winced: it was two. Their flight to Calabria was in just a few hours, really, at ten.

“I cannot remember the last time I was awake this late,” he said, to no one in particular. He hadn’t _meant_ to say it – hm. He mentally patted himself down to confirm. Yes, he was drunk. Maybe even very drunk. When was the last time he was very drunk?

“Can I walk you back to your place?”

Nico turned, and there was Joe, and it took a truly herculean effort not to touch or kiss him; he instead grinned – no doubt looking like the drunken, besotted fool that he was – and said, “You may.” _He’s so good_ , he thought. _So good. Better than I deserve._

They started to walk away when Nico heard, “Are you leaving without giving me a hug? You bastard!” shouted from behind him. Approximately one second later two arms wrapped around his waist and lifted him into the air.

“Mother of God, Booker –“

“I won’t see you for months, Nicky, and you were going to leave without saying goodbye.” Booker dropped him to the ground and Nico turned to put two steadying hands on his friend’s shoulders. Book looked at him with barely contained amusement.

“ _Goodbye_ , Booker. I hope that you have a lovely Christmas, please give Manon and the children my best, and tell them… tell them I’ll take them to fucking Disneyworld when I get back.”

Booker laughed and said, “I will certainly _not_ do that, I don’t think they’ve forgiven you for your betrayal yet. So many visits, stolen from them, all because you didn’t want to be a super-villain, you selfish prick.” He pulled him in for another hug and said into his ear, “You have fun tonight,” before pulling away with a drunken yet meaningful stare. To Joe he said in English, “It has been wonderful getting to know you, my new friend. I am sure I’ll see you again.”

Joe and Book shook hands, and Booker wandered back to the group still lingering outside of the bar.

“So what was that about?” asked Joe, as they began to walk down the narrow street. There were lights strung up between the buildings, twinkling with a romantic, wintry kind of cheer, and it made him want to take Joe’s hand. He looked behind them – they were still too close to everyone.

“Hm?” _Oh, right, we were speaking in Italian._ “Booker was angry with me because I was going to leave without saying goodbye.”

“He didn’t seem very angry.”

“Ah, wrong word. Annoyed? But he was joking.”

Joe smiled over at Nico and said, “Your accent gets very thick with you’re drunk, did you know that?”

“I am not _so_ drunk,” he protested.

“My dear, you are hammered,” Joe responded with a laugh.

 _He called me my dear,_ he thought, and then said, “Hammered?”

“You haven’t heard that before? Just means you’re drunk.”

“How do hammers have anything to do with drinking?”

Joe chuckled again and said, “You know, I have absolutely no idea.”

“English is a ridiculous language,” Nico muttered, mutinously. “Very ugly, too.”

“Ah, see, Nico, you _are_ drunk! That might be the meanest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Around you, perhaps. I have said many mean things around Andy.”

“I believe that.” They navigated around a bike that some asshole had left in the middle of the sidewalk. “She’s kind of terrifying. But, great.”

“She likes you very much,” Nico said.

“Oh yeah?” Joe smiled and there was that _fucking_ dimple and Nico couldn’t stand it anymore; he took Joe’s hand in his. Joe’s smile grew wider as their fingers slotted together.

“ _All_ of my friends like you,” he said softly, as they turned another corner. _I like you too,_ he thought, and before he knew it, the same words slipped out of his mouth, lubricated entirely by alcohol. But Joe squeezed his hand in response, and Nico found that he didn’t care that he’d said it. It was just the truth, anyways.

“I like you too, Nico,” he responded through a grin, bumping his shoulder against Nico’s, who then stopped walking and reeled Joe in by their linked hands. When he stood in front of him, he laid his other palm against Joe’s chest before running it up his neck and jaw, dawdling at his stubble and then sliding his hand into his hair. He fisted the curls and brought Joe’s lips to his, immediately turning the kiss into something hungry. He felt Joe's delight in the returned kiss; the starved and greedy tastes that made him feel even more muddled than he already was, all of his lust from earlier roaring back, growing exponentially when Joe began to kiss him slower and deeper, as filthy as fucking, but _not_. He needed more. Nico broke away with a groan and gulped in a breath.

“Come to mine tonight,” Nico muttered. His hands tugged at Joe’s jacket, fingers clenching reflexively against the leather. The request once voiced felt like something he might regret in the morning - not _impulsive_ necessarily; he’d been thinking about it all fucking night - but something closer to a drunkenly downed shot that might offer momentary pleasure but would then be chased by hours of self-castigation.

Joe rested his forehead against Nico’s and spoke against his lips. “For what?”

“Anything. Everything,” he sighed.

“You’re drunk, Nico,” he responded softly.

“I am,” he nodded, and then, “Call me Nicky.”

“Nicky,” he said through a smile. Nico hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to hear it, but that name said by that mouth – his heart unraveled. “Nicky,” he continued, “I would love to go back to yours, but you are, as previously discussed, hammered. Feels a bit ethically shitty.”

“But I want you. I am consenting.” He pressed his lips to Joe’s and felt him draw in a shaky breath. “Please Joe. Let me suck your cock. I am very good at it.”

Joe exhaled a shocked laugh at that and turned so Nico’s lips were against his cheek. “Jesus, Nicky. I don’t doubt that you are” - he was already pulling away – “but you wanted to go slow, and you’re drunk.”

Nico reached forward and ran a finger behind the waistband of his jeans. “We have gone slow. It has been three days, and we have been together all of that time. It has been torture.” He walked Joe backwards until his back hit the stone wall of a building before setting his lips against the vein jumping in Joe’s neck. He pressed his tongue against it and felt Joe’s groan as he slid a hand down to Joe’s cock and flattened his palm against where it lay hard behind his jeans. Joe rocked ever so slightly into his hand.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “ _Fuck,_ Nicky…”

“No, not three days. It has been weeks, Joe.”

“Weeks?”

Joe’s closed eyes had lines between the brows. Nico wet his lips and set them to his ear. “ _Weeks,_ Joe. Since the test.” He drew his hand slowly up and then back down as Joe’s hands gripped Nico’s hips.

“We should talk about this,” he said weakly, tipping his head back against the wall. His hips began to roll into Nico’s hand, and Nico could practically taste the victory.

“There is something else I could be doing with my mouth, instead.”

The was a low rumble in Joe’s chest that sent Nico’s heart beating so fast he swore he could feel it from the bottom of his feet to the tips of his fingers.

Joe’s lips curled into a slight smile. “So much cheekier than I expected,” he said, as if resuming an earlier conversation.

Feeling rather _cheeky,_ Nico said, “But you like it, don’t you?” just as he dipped his fingers underneath his jeans, hoping to touch what he so desperately sought. Joe reached down to adjust himself and – there it was, the soft head of Joe’s cock against his fingertips. Joe’s hips jerked towards his and he groaned, a tight strangled sound that made Nico’s cock jump in empathetic agony.

 _Fuck, we are in public,_ he remembered, sanity suddenly reasserting itself with the sound Joe had made.

“Joe, my place is not so very far away. We should go.” The cords of Joe’s neck flexed against his lips. “I want to hear all of your sounds, but I also do not want to be arrested.”

Joe’s eyes snapped open and Nico watched him take in their surroundings. Dark street, cars parked along the curb, buildings – with windows – all around.

“Fuck. Right.” He straightened against the wall, pulling his hips from Nico’s grasp and running shaky hands through his hair. “Right,” he said again. He looked back to Nico and set his palm against his jaw, running his thumb along his lips as if he’d give him another quick kiss. Without thinking, Nico opened his mouth and tongued at the digit before sucking it in between his lips. _Please, tell me to do it, and I will,_ he thought desperately. _Fuck my practicality._ Joe’s eyes danced between Nico’s and he had that feeling again, that Joe could read his mind. “Fuck, Nicky…” he squeezed Nico’s neck – Reflexively? On purpose? – and the sound Nico produced wasn’t one he’d ever heard himself make. His hands flew to Joe’s forearm, desperately clutching at the strong muscles under his soft skin. His cock twitched, hard, and he felt precome slicking his skin.

“Okay.” Joe said. His eyes dropped to where his hand pressed against Nico’s jaw and throat. “ _Okay.”_

He let go and wiped his hand across his lips, his heaving chest calming as he took in Nico’s expression. Finally he cleared his throat and grabbed Nico’s hand. “Come on,” he said with a surprisingly gentle smile, “let’s get you back to your place.”

“Joe –“

“Nicky,” he interrupted calmly, still pulling him along, “I want to do everything you just offered to me with those ridiculous eyes, but we’re not doing it tonight.”

Nico huffed. “I am not _that_ drunk,” he muttered.

“You’re drunk enough,” he responded, his tone soft. He looked over to Joe and he saw, even in the poor lighting, that his eyes were practically black the pupils were so blown out. He shivered – all of that from kissing and touching and _mother of God, when we actually fuck I may never recover._ Joe brought their intertwined hands up to his lips and kissed Nico’s knuckles. “And I think… I think that what you were offering needs discussion. Sober discussion.” He stopped as they came upon an intersection. “Which way?”

Nico took the lead, tugging him along to take a right. They fell into a slightly awkward, charged silence, Nico’s mind racing. Joe _had_ been able to read his mind. He’d understood, from Nico’s actions, or maybe just the look on his face, what he’d wanted, and what’s more, he seemed to want to reciprocate. Fuck. It scared him a little, the way he’d smiled when he’d realized. That he could read Nico’s thoughts, could see what Nico had wanted for most of his life but never really had…and then he’d _smiled_.

 _I am never having a drink again, Saint Max, I swear to you._ Fucking Booker. If he hadn’t happily poured those drinks down his throat he could have something else – something far _far_ better - in there now.

“So,” Joe said, “Nicky?” Nico blushed.

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought you hated Nicky,” Joe responded.

“How do you know that?”

“Andy told me, the day we met. She called you Nicky, accidentally, I think. Told me to forget about it because you hated it.”

Nico smiled a little, thinking that sounded exactly like the kind of thing she would do. “It is my childhood name. What I was called until I was in my early twenties. No one except Andy and Booker ever knew me as Nicky.”

Joe extricated his hand from Nico’s and slid it across the small of his back until their hips drew together and they walked in lockstep. Nico set his hand on Joe’s waist too. _To go from being choked against a wall to this_ , he mused, with no amount of wonder. _God help me, this man will be my death._

“I like Nicky,” Joe said.

“I like hearing you say it,” Nico responded. He saw Joe’s smile from the corner of his eye.

They approached his building and Joe withdrew from their embrace in order to push him gently against the wall next to the door. He caged him in with two forearms on either side of his head and pushed his lean body flush to Nico’s before whispering against his ear, “I want to be very clear that I can not wait to see how good you are at sucking cock, Nicky.” Nico drew in a shocked breath at the abrupt change, and he felt all of his blood drain to his own cock. He thought deliriously, _this can’t be good for me; to have all of the blood leave my brain so many times in a night,_ as Joe pressed his lips to Nico’s. They exhaled softly against each other.

“Sleep well,” Joe whispered against his mouth.

Nico didn’t, especially. But he did make his flight.


	12. a tortured glutton/

A few hours later and approximately thirty two thousand feet about the Tyrrhenian Sea, with the ocean sparkling below him and Beta Radio pouring into his ears, Joe repeated Nico’s – Nicky’s - words from last night for perhaps the thousandth time. _Let me suck your cock. I am very good at it._

He pressed his forehead against the window and bit the tip of his thumb, remembering how Nico had sucked on it, the feeling of his mouth and his tongue. Luscious, selfish, wet. And the _sound_ he’d made when Joe’s fingers had jerked against his throat… the choking groan that had haunted Joe every minute since. He felt heat gathering in his belly before Joe’s common sense tapped him on the shoulder and reminded him that he was on a plane sitting next to a complete stranger who probably didn’t want to deal with some perv’s barely concealed erection for the next hour.

He breathed in – he breathed out. Willed the blood out of his cock and back to doing more valuable things, like bringing oxygen to his brain so that it could think. Closed his eyes and listened to the warm guitar and the calming vocals of what was playing. It was one of his favorites for painting; it let him float, hearing nothing and everything at once.

But of course what he heard again was: _Let me suck your cock. I am very good at it._ He heard that gasping moan again.

He’d begun to pick up on the fact that Nico – Nicky – was into some slightly kinkier things over the past couple of days, but last night had essentially confirmed it for him. Joe wasn’t entirely sure, of course, exactly what “kinkier things” entailed, but he was obviously into _something_. Choking, maybe. Aggression, probably – whatever that might entail. Would he want to be tied up? Punished, maybe? He thought back over their various conversations and increasingly desperate make-out sessions over the past week. It felt like Nicky was always subtly teasing him – pushing him to take the next step – and then last night, when he’d called him _cheeky_ again and he’d whispered _but you like it, don’t you_. He thought again of the expression on Nicky’s face as he’d squeezed his throat – the one that danced between pleasure and pain and back again, mixed with something like ecstasy. He involuntarily shuddered. _He wants to be punished for pushing you_ , _for being greedy,_ his mind offered up like smoke, and for once, his guts agreed with mind.

He shut his eyes and tried to let the music distract him.

> _I pulled you in my body_ _  
> The thought is really all I know  
>  Does it alarm you or disarm you_ _?_

His eyes flew open and he almost laughed at his choice of music, remembered _why_ he loved this album so much for painting: It was soothing, yes, but also sensual.

> _I pressed my tongue against your hair  
>  You invite me, say delight me, and come inside me  
> There's no room to hide me there_.

_No room to hide me there._ He sighed. _Ain’t that the fucking truth._ If – when – he slept with Nicky, and if it was as good as he suspected it would be, there wouldn’t be any more room to hide how he was beginning to feel, and that scared the shit out of him.

These past few days with Nicky had so far meant more to him than the beginning of any other relationship he’d ever had. He knew he fell in love easily – stupidly, his friends would say, and they were probably right – and he also knew that they were in a heightened environment – after all, when had he ever spent a full week, day-in and day-out with a newly minted boyfriend, or whatever the fuck Nicky was – and yet…it felt _right_. He shouldn’t trust it. But he felt it – he did. It felt, really, really _right._

He tapped his fingers against the window and wished he could talk to Nile about this. What would she say? Something like, _you haven’t even slept with him, Joe, you maniac, pump the goddamn brakes,_ and it would be good advice. Advice he would give to her too, if she told him she thought she as falling in love with someone a few days after she’d met them. It was advice that he would also inevitably find impossible to follow.

He opened the texts between himself and Nicky from this morning and smiled at them as if they were something precious instead of digital pixels.

The first had pinged into his phone at 9:43 am. _I made my flight. Thank you for being the sane one last night._

 _I didn’t feel especially sane, leaving you,_ he’d responded because, as previously stated, he was truly incapable of pumping the goddamn brakes, when it came to Nicolo di Genova.

 _Ah, yes. I recall being a bit – how do I say this? – forward._ Then, while Joe was trying to craft an answer, _Did it make you crazy, Joe?_ had pinged in.

There it was – pushing and teasing him yet again. Reading the texts back with his newfound certainty about what Nicky wanted, Joe wondered how Nicky would react to being gagged. He thought again of that broken moan… something told him that he’d react very well.

But all he’d responded with was, _It did. I can’t wait to hold you to your promise._

And Nico had said, _I can’t wait to be held to that promise. Meet me in my trailer tonight so we can talk. I’ll let you know when._

Joe closed his texts and his eyes. _So we can talk_ , he’d said. Joe had pressed pause on whatever was happening last night mainly because Nico was quite–to-very drunk, and Joe had been far from sober. Now, though, with a few hours sleep, the clarity of sobriety, and this weird innate understanding of what Nicky seemed to want…he felt that something more like a gamble might pay off. _Show me what that mouth can do_ , he imagined himself saying. _You promised, Nicky. You’ve been such a brat the past few days, pushing me to do more after you said you wanted to go slow._ He’d push him to his knees. _You shouldn’t have done that._

He breathed in shakily. Yeah – that would work just fine. He turned to look back out the window, at the Calabrian mountains emerging in the distance, taking him to Nicky at five hundred miles per hour.

* * *

That night, Joe sat at a fire that crackled merrily in the center of their campsite, the flames reflecting light off of the mirrored shine of the surrounding airstreams. About a dozen crew members were gathered around the fire with him, their breathing clouding the clear mountain air as they got to know one another a little better. It felt to Joe’s mind remarkably similar to the first day of camp: There were perhaps twenty people he’d be spending literally all of his time with for about two weeks; and some of them would become friends and some of them would never be seen again.

A man sat down heavily to his left. “Lykon,” he said by way of introduction. He put out his hand for Joe to shake.

“Joe,” Joe responded, shaking the proffered hand.

“Oh, I know who you are Joseph al-Kaysani. I’ve stared at your face quite a bit over the past couple of weeks.” He said it with a smile and took a sip of whatever drink was steaming in his mug.

Joe waited for him to explain the opaque comment, but he didn’t. “Because you’re…stalking me?” he finally asked.

He laughed. “No, no. I’m the DP. Been working with Quynh and Gio to make sure you and Nicolo are lit properly together.” He squinted at Joe like he was – well, like he was the director of photography, and he was recording him with a camera. “Your skin tones are quite different, but Quynh wants to use as much natural and fire light as possible.”

“Ah,” Joe responded. “Understood.”

“We’ll take good care of you,” he finished. “You two are going to look like a Renaissance painting by the time we’re done. Love glowing from within, you know.”

“Sure,” Joe said, as if he did know, but he didn’t really. “So where are you from, Lykon?”

“London, originally. Peckham, if you know it?”

“That’s south, right?”

He nodded, and Lykon launched into a description of the different boroughs of London, and Joe asked all of the right questions and laughed at the right places – Lykon was, really, pretty delightful all in all; witty and quick and he definitely planned on getting to know him better – but at least half of his attention was spent keeping an eye out for Nicky, whom he still hadn’t seen, and he’d arrived hours ago _._

He heard Quynh’s voice behind him and turned towards the sound, his eyes finding Nicky’s as easily as a compass finds true north. Joe’s eyes dropped to Nico’s lips – compass; true north – and noticed that he’d shaved his beard so that only a seventies style mustache was left and God help him, it looked fucking good.

He started to walk over and Joe pulled his focus again to Lykon, feeling a bit guilty for how he’d half paid attention to the other man, after he’d made the effort to introduce himself. _I’ll do better when I’m not insanely horny. Tomorrow._

“Hey, Nicolo,” Lykon said, standing to greet him as he arrived by their side.

“Lykon. Good to see you. You had no problems making it here?” Nicky asked as they shook hands, studiously ignoring Joe’s staring. _Why does that mustache look so good?_ He was legitimately baffled. Mustaches looked like shit on him.

“None. It’s gorgeous up here. Cold. But gorgeous.” He gestured towards Joe and said, “I’ve just been getting to know our other leading man, here.”

“Ah, yes.” Nicky’s eyes finally found Joe’s and he felt the stare all over. “I was wondering if I might borrow Joe for a moment – do you mind?”

Lykon waved his hand as if to say, _go for it_ , and Joe finally stood. “Great meeting you Lykon.”

“You too,” he heard, as he walked off with Nicky. Both were entirely quiet by some unspoken agreement, until they were well outside of the lights cast by the fire and strung up fairy lights. Joe cast furtive glances at Nicky the entire time.

“I like the new look,” Joe finally said, and Nicky cut a smirking look at him. “I thought you were going to text me so we could meet tonight?”

Nicky hummed. “I was going to, but it will be hours before you can meet me without someone noticing.” He inched forward so that they were almost flush, and the hair on the back of Joe’s neck stood to attention. “But then I saw you… your skin is very beautiful in the firelight, did you know that?” He licked his lips.

“No idea until tonight,” Joe whispered, holding onto his rapidly slipping sanity in the face of Nicky’s words. “Lykon said Quynh wants to light us with firelight as much as possible.”

Nicky smiled secretly, and said, “An excellent directorial choice,” as he put his hands on Joe’s chest and pressed their lips together. It was softer – gentler – than their usual kiss. A new kind, Joe realized, as Nicky’s lips left his – one borne of familiarity; as if Nicky was just happy to see him after a long day. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his lips, just as he couldn’t help his hands guiding Nicky’s forehead to his.

“An entire day without seeing you,” Joe sighed against his lips.

“I know. It was odd. We have spent far too much time together recently.”

Joe chuckled at his response and kissed him again, this time slower, taking his time, feeling his now smooth cheeks and the brush of his mustache against Joe’s stubble. He pulled away, mindful still of the large group of their colleagues not so very far away. “So, are we talking now, or am I still sneaking into your trailer later?”

“Later,” Nico said. “I would like some privacy, wouldn’t you?”

Joe smiled. “You have no idea,” he said.

* * *

The door softly snicked shut behind him as he let himself into Nicky’s trailer later that evening. The only light came from the moon, which shone brightly, sneaking in around closed curtains. Nicky was standing with his back against the sink, limned by the soft white light. _The moon when I’m lost in darkness_ , Joe thought reflexively. Then, _damn, that is a fucking good line, I have got to remember that._

Quiet lay heavy in the little space; their breathing and the blood pounding in his ears the only thing he could hear. “Joe,” Nicky said, and he said nothing else. Before he really realized what he planned to do, Joe’s hand was sliding across Nicky’s soft throat and collaring gently around his neck. He felt the frantic beating of Nicky’s heart in the vein beneath his hand and recalled his thoughts from days ago: _He doesn’t know what he wants. But you do._ That wasn't true though, was it? Nicky knew exactly what he wanted.

“Nicky…” he murmured, pressing lightly against the artery just as he had last night. There was enough light for him to see how Nicky’s eyelids fluttered and his teeth sank into his bottom lip.

 _Now or never_ , he thought. “Am I correct in assuming that you want me to punish you for being so greedy for me?”

He savored Nicky’s shaky gasp and waited, trying not to show his nerves. _God I hope I haven’t fucked this up._ The green in Nicky’s eyes seemed to deepen as he tilted his head back and pressed his exposed throat forward against Joe’s hand at the same time. “Yes. Please, Joe.” His pulse jumped wildly beneath Joe’s palm. Joe’s cock filled to the same beat.

 _Fuck,_ Joe thought, succinctly. There was a part of him that wanted to just pull Nicky in to a hug for being so honest– or, maybe suck him off as a reward for said honesty – but Nicky wanted something else just then, it was obvious in every line of his body, every shaking breath, the emerald of his eyes.

 _Now or never_ , he reminded himself again. He wanted it; Nicky did too. Another role – or, another facet of himself. He shrugged into it like a second skin that fit him perfectly, because it was for Nicky.

“Are you going to keep your promise from last night?” Joe asked, tilting Nicky’s chin up and to the side as if inspecting goods for purchase. “Someone told me you’re very good at sucking cock.” He skimmed his teeth up the side of Nicky’s neck and savored the sound of his breath catching.

“I am,” he whispered.

He pressed his mouth to Nicky’s ear and slid his hand into Nicky’s hair, grasping it in a tight fist. “You’re what? Good at sucking cock? Or keeping your promises?”

“Both,” Nicky shuddered out.

“Well then. Show me.” Nicky began to sink to his knees but was stopped by Joe’s tight grip in his hair. He moaned, a great, gasping thing, when he realized that he couldn’t move. “I think you should ask me, first,” Joe whispered. “You’ve put me through a lot, Nicky, telling me you wanted to go slow and then being such a tease.” He bit at Nicky’s bottom lip. “Go on.”

Nicky licked his lips but didn’t say anything. He gasped when Joe pulled on his hair until his throat was again exposed for a biting kiss. “Ask me,” Joe hissed against the delicately shifting muscles beneath his tongue.

“Please, Joe,” Nicky sighed.

“Please, what, Nicky?”

“Please let me suck your cock.” He swallowed. “I know that I have been bad.”

A wave of arousal hit him at the trembling words at the same time that the game they’d been playing at faded away, the realization that Nicky – his Nicky, who was so beautiful and clever and wry - was about to suck his cock hitting him like a ton of fucking bricks. Joe pulled back slightly and let his gaze wander over Nicky’s face. He stared back at Joe with something like defiance and let out a shuddering breath as the silence stretched under Joe’s perusal. “You haven’t been bad. You’ve just been playing a game without me realizing, and now you’re getting exactly what you wanted, aren’t you?” His other hand caressed the side of Nicky’s face and he sighed into his palm, closing his eyes. “You’re perfect,” Joe said softly, harshly pulling Nicky’s hair at the same time. His eyes flew open as he gasped – against the pain or the words, Joe wasn’t sure. Hopefully both. “Fucking perfect. Smart, hot… slutty.” Nico’s mouth dropped open on a moan. “You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” he continued.

Joe had no idea who this dirty-talking fucker was, but based on Nicky’s trembling reaction, he thought he’d let him stick around for a while.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I am. Please let me suck your cock, Joe.”

He released his hold. “Get on your knees then,” he commanded. He unzipped his jeans and fisted his cock as he watched Nicky sink gracefully down and then grabbed his jaw with his other hand, pressing against his lips to open his mouth. He pressed his cock just a few inches in before Nicky took over and began to work at him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, watching him, sliding his hands into Nicky’s soft hair. It felt as good as he’d imagined it would, these past days – weeks – _months_ – God, he remembered thinking Nicky had a good mouth while sitting on his fucking couch - and now he was _here,_ and this fucking gorgeous creature was whimpering around his cock, taking him deeper and – _fuck_.

“Jesus, Nicky,” he grunted. God, he wanted to throw him on the bed and fuck him; he wanted Nicky to do the same to him, to rip off his clothes and make Joe beg for his cock. He didn’t realize that his head was tipped back, or that he was moaning, until Nicky pulled off of him and said, “Joe, we can’t wake the camp.” Joe’s wild eyes sought Nicky’s and saw dark delight in his expression. “And can you please take off your shirt,” he continued, before sinking back down on Joe’s cock even further. It wasn’t a question, so Joe ripped off his shirt as he leaned back against the door. Nicky’s hands circled around to Joe’s ass and he sank further down until his lips were against Joe’s base and he swallowed and it felt so _fucking good_. “Jesus you are fucking good at this,” he gasped. He desperately pushed his jeans down past his ass so he could feel Nicky’s hands on his skin and Nicky took the hint, massaging his balls before pressing his fingers against the skin behind them, all the while roughly sucking, taking him deeper and faster; choking sounds spilling from where his lips stretched tightly around his cock.

“Nicky, my God, Nicky, _fuck,_ harder,” Joe choked out, pushing his hips forward to meet Nicky’s mouth and clutching at his hair. He looked down and saw his open mouth and that mustache and his fucking gorgeous unknowable eyes peering up at him with abject lust and it was too much. He was too close. His fingers clenched in Nicky’s hair, trying to keep him still so he wouldn’t come, but Nicky moaned and swallowed and the squeezing vibration shot pleasure up his body and into his head, so intense he stumbled.

He had just enough cognizance to moan, “Nicky,” before the feeling came crashing back down and zipping along to the base of his spine and he was coming, coming so hard it felt like it might kill him, his entire body seizing up in a paroxysm of pleasure.

When he came back to himself he became aware of Nicky’s arm jerking at his own cock with his lips still clamped tight to Joe’s softening cock and it should have been too much but it wasn’t, it wasn’t, not at all, in fact, it – “ _Fuck_.” Another spurt of come landed against Nicky’s tongue and he began to shake and whimper below him, frantically jerking himself. _God, he is fucking perfect._

“Please,” Nicky murmured.

“You want to come, Nicky?”

He nodded desperately.

Joe fisted Nicky’s hair. “Beg me,” he said.

He said something in Italian.

“English, Nicky, English,” he tutted, derisively.

“ _Please,”_ Nicky groaned, an angry, desperate sound, his mouth open wide. Joe slid two fingers between his lips. “Suck,” he said, and barely controlled the shudder that slid through him when he felt the suction and saw his hollowed out cheeks.

“Good boy,” he said. Nicky stared up at him with something like adoration and suddenly it wasn’t a role – it wasn’t a scene – it was just _him_ and he realized the power he held and it felt _fucking good._ He wanted the beautiful man kneeling at his feet to feel the same power. He'd fucking get it.

“Come, Nicky,” Joe said. “Come all over yourself.” Nicky pulled away from Joe’s fingers with a gasp and his head thunked back against the cabinets, and the _look_ on his face…

“More,” Nicky said, and Joe was only too happy to oblige.

“You couldn’t even wait for me to do it for you. I would, you know. I’d let you fuck my hands or my mouth or my ass, whatever you wanted, but you couldn’t even _wait_ , you greedy thing.” Nicky moaned, his hips pumping up into his hands now, his face turned up to Joe. He softly placed a hand against Nicky’s cheek and he whispered, with all the secretive love he had in his heart for this fucking remarkable man, “Slut.”

Nicky moaned loud enough that Joe put this hand over his mouth. “Shhhh, shhh, Nicky, we can’t have people hearing how desperate you are.”

Nicky’s hand flew up to grasp Joe’s arm and he came with a muffled shout, his muscles shuddering as he pressed against him and enough come coating his hand that it dripped to the tile between his knees.

They caught their breath, staring at each other as Joe tucked himself back in and zipped his jeans and Nicky wiped his hand against his shirt. He was still fully clothed. Joe offered his hand and Nicky took it, standing with a groan. “My knees,” he said bashfully, and Joe laughed and thought, _Yes, I am absolutely falling in love with this man_ , and he kissed him with the thought on his lips, tasting himself and Nicky in his mouth. Nicky sighed into it as their hands softly roamed.

“For the record, that was absolutely the best blowjob I’ve ever received,” Joe said. He felt Nicky’s lips curve into a smile against his own.

“I am gratified to hear that, Mr. al- Kaysani,” he responded primly, and Joe’s heart truly felt like it might burst from the swelling of sheer delight - that Nicky had playfully batted back his stupid little comment after making him come harder than he ever had in his life.

He took Nicky’s hand and led them the few feet to bed, where they collapsed in an exhausted heap. Joe settled his head against Nicky’s chest and tangled their legs together. “Can I stay for a bit?” Joe asked, looking up.

“Of course,” Nicky responded with a sleepy smile. He yawned and closed his eyes. “But we should set an alarm.” Joe silently agreed; he didn’t want to blow their secret on the first night, that would be ridiculous, and then everything might be weird, and that would suck – “Because I would like to do that one more time tonight,” Nicky said, interrupting his thoughts.

Joe sighed with contentment and pressed a smiling kiss against Nicky’s chest and listened to the heavy thumping of his heart. “So it was good? What you wanted, I mean?”

Joe looked up to see that Nicky was _smirking_. “It was as if you were in my head, pulling out the words I wanted to hear.” His expression went a little dreamy. “Slut, especially.”

“Yeah that really got you going,” Joe said with a grin. “It was fucking hot. Any idea why?”

“I have no idea,” he responded, squeezing Joe closer to his chest. “Probably it is some lingering Catholic thing,” he said through a yawn. “But it was…” he ran his hand through his hair and stared up at the ceiling. Joe could practically see him replaying what they’d just done. “It was perfect.” He yawned again. “Sorry, I am yawning so much; it has been a long day and that was perhaps the hardest I have ever come in my life.”

Joe couldn’t help his grin, feeling alternately awed and cruel for what he’d apparently done to him. The way he’d made him shake and moan and beg. He’d submitted entirely to Nicky’s desires – becoming what he wanted so thoroughly that Nicky’s desires had become his own, and it had been the hottest thing he’d ever been a part of. He turned himself so that he was propped up on his elbow, with his face hovering over Nicky’s. “The hardest you’ve ever come your life, you say?” He smiled cheekily.

“Yes,” Nicky said solemnly, meeting his eyes squarely. “So thank you for that.”

“Anytime,” Joe responded. He pressed his lips to Nicky’s and sighed when he opened his mouth to deepen it, but the heat in the kiss was gentle – he tasted affection on his tongue and it felt like an affirmation of something, rather than a prelude. It was thrilling.

Joe sighed and pulled away, dropping his head back down against Nicky’s chest and borrowing into his shirt. “Anytime,” he said again, as he closed his eyes, “I am entirely at your disposal.” _My heart, my soul, my body, whatever you want, my love, I’ll give it to you._

They slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you commented on my last chapter and I haven't responded yet, I apologize. I will as soon as possible, but I figured y'all would prefer a new chapter to me taking two hours to respond to comments to get to inbox zero beforehand.
> 
> The song Joe is listening to is "Our Remains" by Beta Radio, and I encourage a listen to the entire album it's on - it's fucking gorgeous.


	13. /some portion of a whole

Nico woke abruptly in the darkness, his body tensing with confusion before he remembered where he was. The trailer was still softly lit with the same shade of moonlight from when he’d closed his eyes, so he thought that must not have been asleep for long.

Joe was sprawled over him still, his arm thrown across Nico’s stomach and his head buried in his shirt – which, he suddenly realized, was still covered in his come. He grimaced and slowly extricated himself from Joe’s embrace, trying not to wake him. He left the bed and eyed the other man as he removed his clothes to rinse off in what turned out to be the smallest shower ever created.

 _Joe._ How strange that they’d only known each other for a few days, and yet he felt so familiar – right, somehow - as if they’d known each other a millennia. He frowned at the overly romantic thought as he ducked under the showerhead. _That is just the orgasm talking, Nico._ He closed his eyes under the water for a long moment, remembering.

It had taken a good deal of courage for last night to happen the way it did. After Andrei’s reaction all those years ago ( _Why would I want to hurt you, Nicolo?_ he’d said, shocked at the idea. The irony.) Nico hadn’t been sure he’d ever try for that kind of dynamic again, but Joe had pried him open, seen what was inside, understood it, and then acted on it to absolute fucking perfection without even needing to be told. He’d given him everything he ever wanted. The pleasure in the act had been exquisite, but it was the understanding – or, the trust that Joe understood and would take him where he – where _they_ \- wanted to go – _that_ had really felt like a miracle. He wanted to do it again.

 _So much for going slow_ , he thought. _I really am a slut._

He shut off the water and dried himself off, wandered to his bag – he hadn’t even unpacked yet – to grab sweatpants and a shirt. He usually slept naked but Joe hadn’t seen him naked yet, hadn’t even seen him without a fucking shirt on.

“Nicky?”

He jumped and turned to find Joe propped up against his elbows in bed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. His gaze raked languidly from the top of Nico’s head down to his feet, pausing for a long moment on the towel he clutched to his waist. He hummed, and a predatory smile blossomed. “Come here,” he said.

As if hypnotized, Nico crossed over to the bed, trying to even his breathing as he watched Joe remove his jeans and socks. He lay across the covers and Joe settled in to sit cross legged next to him, running one hand gently along Nicky’s chest before resting it above where his heart pounded. “You’re beautiful,” Joe murmured.

Nico scoffed, his eyes greedily taking in Joe’s naked chest, the heavy slope of his shoulders and the bands of muscle across his belly. “Joe, you look like a fucking fitness model.”

Joe chuckled and began to move his hand slowly again, in wide sweeps across Nico’s chest, gently scraping his nails against the skin. Nico’s breath caught.

“Well, thank you,” he finally said. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t work at it.” His hand trailed down, following the light dusting of hair. “But I think I only did it so I could one day have a beautiful green eyed Italian man on his knees for me.” Joe hissed as his palm cupped Nico’s cock under the towel. “A beautiful, green eyed Italian man with a big cock, apparently – _Jesus_ , Nicky – “ he laughed, pulling off the towel “- what have you been hiding from me?” Joe's dark brown eyes did their sparkling thing - with mirth and something else - as he laid eyes on his cock. Nico let out an involuntary moan when Joe's fingers traced along its length. He felt himself harden further.

“You saw it before,” he said.

“I barely looked – I was too focused on your face.” Nico’s eyelids fluttered shut when Joe’s other hand began to trace his features – along the seam of his lips, the arch of his brows, the curve of his nose. “That was far more interesting at the time. I could see every feeling in it.”

“That is what they tell me,” Nico responded softly.

“Ah, yes. It _is_ your moneymaker.” Nico’s responding smirk transformed into a gasp when he felt Joe’s hand squeeze his cock, drawing his attention back to baser emotions. “Tell me, Nicky, what do you want from me?” he asked, as casually dangerous as a knife held to his throat.

“What do you mean?”

Joe’s hand journeyed to Nico’s neck and settled just above his collarbone as his other hand began to slowly – torturously – rub up and down on his cock. Nico sucked in a breath. “I want to know what you like, so I can give it to you. You like being choked, right?” Joe’s tone was gentle, his brown eyes devoid of judgment or skepticism. _So different from Andrei._

He nodded tightly.

“Tied up?”

Another tight nod.

“What else?”

He’d never really shared his desires out loud in any detail before; it was hard to imagine his voice producing the words. He closed his eyes and mustered his courage, wanting to tell this wonderful man what he wanted to hear. The truth. “I – I have not done many of these things. Or, any of these things, really. They have always been fantasies.”

“That’s fine,” Joe responded quietly, his hand still gliding gently along Nico’s cock. “Tell me what you fantasize about.”

“It is all… mainly to do with being punished. For what I want.”

“Which is?”

“Anything.” He smiled grimly. “Catholics, you know.”

“Sure.” Joe traced warm fingers up the inside of his thigh, making Nico tremble and sigh. “But anything specific?”

“Being too lustful.”

“Ah. Hence ‘slut’ getting you so wound up.”

“Yes.” His eyes flew open when he felt Joe’s warm breath against his cock. Joe was kneeling between his legs now, looking up at him. He felt himself grow impossibly harder.

“Go on,” he prompted. His tongue licked a stripe up his cock and Nico’s back arched against the feeling.

“You…slap me. Spank me. Don't let me come, or force me to come. Mainly it is the idea of power, I think, but sometimes it is humiliation too. For being…for being a slut.” He grimaced, his face hot with embarrassment and arousal.

From between his legs Joe said calmly, “And do I fuck you or do you fuck me?”

 _God, he’s hard to disconcert,_ he thought, as arousal surged like a head rush. “Either,” he gasped. “Both.”

Joe settled lower between his legs and shrugged Nico’s legs over his shoulders. “That makes sense,” he murmured. “A slut like you wouldn’t be satisfied with just fucking or being fucked.” Nico groaned. His _words -_ they were like something out of his well-worn mental scripts, something he’d furiously masturbate over but never expected to actually hear.

Joe slid his tongue from his balls down past his hole and up again and Nico gasped. Joe caught his gaze. “Do you like that?”

His mind went blank as all of his blood rushed south. He watched as his cock jerked against his belly. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Joe muttered. “What don’t you like, Nicky?”

“Very little,” he whispered.

Joe’s mouth was open, his eyes hungry. Nico loved the look, loved that Joe’s eyes reflected his desires back at him. “God, you really are perfect,” Joe finally murmured. They stared at each other, Joe obviously _thinking_ in a way that made Nico feel both a little nervous and incredibly hot. "We need a word, don't we? That's a thing, right?"

"Like a safeword?"

"I guess."

Nico cast his thoughts far and wide to try and think of a word that would work. "Pineapple."

Joe quirked an eyebrow. "Why 'pineapple?'"

"I am allergic," he said simply. "And they are quite...pokey."

Joe barked out a laugh. "Noted, Nicky, no pineapple on your pizza."

"Joe, I cannot tell if you're joking or not, and I would really like to continue what we are doing, but I need to make sure you know that pineapple on pizza is an abomination under the eyes of God."

Joe smiled again, mischief in his eyes, and laid a sucking kiss at the end of Nico's cock. "I _like_ pineapple on my pizza, Nicky."

"Joe," he groaned, in pain over that the truly horrifying knowledge, and then in pain at the way that Joe's mouth slid further down his cock. Nico ran frustrated hands through his hair and spasmed a little when Joe hummed and began taking him deeper, working him with his hands and mouth in a way that drove all remaining thoughts of pineapple - or anything else - right from his head.

Joe's head came up, and he gasped, “Where’s your lube?”

“Leather bag on the cabinet.”

Joe left the bed to rummage through his toiletries bag and Nico lay there panting, his mind racing. Lube meant penetration, but of whom, and by what? Should he tell him where he’d stashed the condoms too? No, they should at least _try_ to go slow, like he’d said before, to protect his idiot heart. Fingers were all right; cocks not – not yet, anyways. It was an arbitrary rule, he knew, but it helped him feel like his brain still had some control, in even the slightest way. _Why are you tormenting yourself? You want him to fuck you and for you to fuck him, and besides, he could punish you for giving in so easily._ _Humiliate you for wanting him so badly._ God, his brain. So completely knotted – the desire and fantasies and reality so intensely entwined they couldn’t possibly be extricated from each other.

Joe thumped back on the bed and coasted his now entirely naked body along Nico’s until they lay flush against each other. Joe’s cock slid against his, lubricated by Nico’s wetness. Joe’s hips rolled, rubbing them together even more firmly. He swallowed Nico’s gasp before drawing away. “So much come already, Nicky. Is it always like that?”

“Not usually,” he muttered.

“Just for me then?” He nipped at Nico’s bottom lip. “Because you want me so badly?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he muttered.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” His hand settled against his cock again, a whisper of contact that had Nico straining up for more. “No, I don’t think so,” he chided, pulling his hand away. “I know you’re dying for it, but you’re not going to come until I tell you to.” Pressure came – a slow drag of his palm on Nico’s foreskin, dragging it down. “But all that come…” He squeezed him at the base and Nico’s hands twisted in the bedsheets. He wished he was tied up, but there was time enough for that later. “You must really want to fuck me, hm?” He cocked an eyebrow in his direction and Nico nodded tightly. “Too bad. You’re too easy. There’s no mystery, you know? Why would I want to be with someone so desperate, so slutty?”

 _Oh my God._ Joe thought Nico was perfect? It was Joe who was perfect, so easily vocalizing what he’d only imagined being told, things that had caused him to cringe with embarrassment in the safety of his own fucking head, and he just…said them. What would Nico say, if this were a fantasy?

“I’m sorry, Joe. I’ve wanted you for too long,” he whispered, and excitement shuddered down his spine.

“Well, maybe you should rub one out before we get together next time,” he said, casually cruel.

“So there will be a next time?”

Joe’s fingers smeared through the come that had collected below the soft curve of Nico’s belly.

“Only if you don’t come until I tell you to,” he said, as he slid his come-covered fingers into Nico’s mouth.

 _Fuck, yes._ He reeled, tasting the salty sharp flavor. _How is he so fucking good at this?_ He fidgeted, his cock throbbing with arousal as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked at Joe’s fingers like they were his cock, not breaking eye-contact for a moment. Joe’s teeth worried at his bottom lip as he watched. _He’s good at it because he likes it too_ , he realized.

Joe pulled his fingers away and then shifted his body down, lowering his face until it hovered over Nico’s cock again. “Can you do that for me, Nicky?” Joe caught his gaze, cruel delight twinkling in his eyes – perfect. “Can you be a good boy?”

“Yes,” he gasped, his head falling back on a full throated moan as Joe finally swallowed him down, his rough hands with those lovely callouses and long fingers hard on his thighs. Nico’s hands flew into Joe’s hair, his fingers clenching in the soft curls, his hips arching up at Joe’s desperate sounding moan.

“Oh, Joe –“ His spine was already undulating, pushing himself into Joe’s glorious mouth. Joe stopped and grabbed the lube. Nico stared, gasping for breath, as Joe poured a generous amount on his fingers.

“I would have give you what you wanted, if you weren’t so fucking greedy,” he said, rubbing his fingers together so they were covered in lube. “Just like the first time. I would have slicked you up and made you fuck me with that big cock, made you come on my cock too, but you’re too desperate for it. So you’ll just get my fingers instead.” His fingers rubbed the sensitive skin around his hole and Nico shuddered. “How do you feel about that?”

“I’ll take whatever you give me, Joe,” Nico muttered. He still couldn’t entirely believe this was really happening.

“I know you will. Keep your hands to yourself,” he said, and then one of those long, long fingers slid in at the same time his mouth dropped back down onto his cock.

“Fuck,” Nico hissed, his brain briefly whiting out at the sensation; his hands again flew to Joe’s hair.

Joe’s mouth came off of Nico’s cock with a soft pop. “I _just_ told you to keep your hands to yourself.” He twisted his finger until he found Nicos prostate and _rubbed_ , causing fire to shoot up Nico’s spine, before he removed his finger too. He sighed dramatically. “I’ll have to tie you up.”

Nico’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest.

Joe got off the bed and crouched at Nico’s bag, poking around to find something that would work, eventually pulling out the tie for a robe. He tested the strength by pulling the ends, which made his muscles stand out in relief. “Perfect.” He sat back on the bed, discarding the robe to the side. “Give me your hands.”

Joe’s words lit him up inside as surely as that stroke against his prostate. He offered up his wrists, and with a wicked smile, Joe wrapped the tie around and between his wrists in a figure eight before securing it to the window latch at the head of the bed. _How did I get so lucky?_

“Now, _stay_ ,” he murmured. He gripped Nico’s cock again and gave him a few cruel tight strokes, staring at Nico’s face as if it were an object of utmost fascination. It was too good – being tied up and talked to like Joe was, _by_ Joe, who was perfectly indulgent, or maybe just perfect full-stop – his hands trembled and he let out a deep moan.

“ _Don’t_ come, Nicky. If you come, I’ll leave you tied up like this, let one of the PAs find you when you miss your call time.” His head lowered and he licked over Nico’s nipple and gently bit at it. _Jesus._ “Can you imagine? The great Nicolo di Genova, tied up and covered in his own come. What a story they’d have. I wonder if they’d sell it?”

“Don’t,” he said, staring into Joe’s brown eyes, letting him see that what he really meant was _please keep going_.

Joe found the discarded bottle of lube and poured it on his fingers again, scooting down between his legs and glancing up as a finger smoothly entered him again. “I’d like that, I think. Reading about it with a cup of coffee, knowing I was the one who did that to you. But you’d deserve it, wouldn’t you? The humiliation. For failing me.”

“ _Sì_ _,”_ he gasped, both to the question and the second finger sliding in.

“Don’t come,” he warned again, before his mouth sank down onto his cock. He sucked hard while his fingers scissored inside of him and a third finger entered. The pressure and friction had Nico panting, his chest heaving for more air. He gritted his teeth, desperately trying to stave off the pleasure as it rose in him, as inexorable as the tide. Joe’s mouth slid off his cock, a thick line of spit connected his mouth to the head. “Oh, Nicky,” Joe groaned. “I can feel how badly you want this. Your hole is so tight, so greedy for me.”

 _Don’t come,_ he repeated to himself, _don’t come, don’t come, don’t come._

“You want more though, don’t you? You want all of my fingers? My cock? I think my cock would fill you up perfectly, Nicky.”

“Joe – per favore – “ His release was building, a tight heat expanding from the base of his spine out until it felt like his whole body was glowing with it. Joe sucked Nico’s cock back down and Nico couldn’t help rolling his hips, now, up into to Joe’s mouth, down onto his fingers. Joe moaned around him at the movement, and that made that furious heat burn even hotter.

He was going to come, he was going to disappoint Joe, who held his heart in the palm of his hand; Joe, who thought he was a desperate slut; Joe, who made him laugh. Joe, who came off his cock with a gasp. “You’re about to come, aren’t you?” He curled his fingers to hit his prostate again, rubbing, and the heat began to implode, he could feel it, he tried to hold on, to stop, but -

Joe’s other hand flew to his neck. “Don’t come, Nicky, don’t you dare come.” He squeezed, constricting his air flow ever so slightly, and Nico surrendered to it, let the fire consume him until he was nothing but pleasure and ash. He felt come coating his belly, thick and copious, and vaguely registered that he was twitching and groaning, and that Joe was moaning, and coming on Nico’s belly too.

He felt dazed, like he was floating outside of himself, as his mind slowly pieced itself back together. He licked his lips and realized as if from very far away that Joe was mouthing at his neck, muttering words he could hardly understand. His language processing center wasn’t back online apparently.

Joe pushed Nico’s sweaty hair back and stared at him with – with _awe_. “Nicky,” he whispered. “My god.”

 _“_ _Sì.”_ His heart was still hammering in its ribbed cage as he continued to try to catch his breath.

Joe smiled dopily. “Did I make you forget English?”

Nico huffed out a laugh. “I believe so, yes. But I have it back, now.”

Joe hummed with obvious delight. “I’ll have to put that on my resume.” He leaned up and unhooked him from the window and unwound the tie from around Nico’s wrists, found the robe and tossed it on Nico’s come covered chest before collapsing again at his side. He rolled over onto his back and glanced over at him, watching as Nico mopped up their collective spend. “You know, I thought earlier that that was the hardest I’d ever come, and it was the hottest thing I’d ever been a part of, but I take it back. _This_ was the hardest I’ve ever come, and the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of.” He expelled a breath and started laughing. “Jesus.”

Nico’s head rolled over to watch him laugh, a small smile playing on his lips as delight coursed through him at the sound. Joe’s head rolled over to Nico’s and he smiled back. He fumbled for Nico’s hand and slotted their fingers together. They stared at each other quietly, and Nico thought, _I love you_ , as clear as day, but of course he did not say it. Barely even believed it. But he thought it.

“You know, I imagined doing this with you before we even met?” Joe said.

“What, calling me a slut?” Nico responded with a sly smile.

Joe huffed out a laugh. “No – being with you. I watched a few of your movies… you Europeans are very chill about sex and nudity.”

“Ah. Yes. Certainly more than you prudish Americans.”

Joe rolled over on his side and propped himself up on an elbow. With a grin, he said, “I’m sorry, did I not just make you come through the sheer force of Catholic shame?”

Nico laughed. “A fair point.” He rolled over to face Joe and propped himself up on his elbow too, so they were mirror images. “But it was not just Catholic guilt, and you know it.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t, Nicky. Tell me.” He smiled. He knew, but Nico would tell him anyways.

“It was you. I…you must know how attracted I am to you.”

Joe lay flat on his back again and stretched, all of his muscles standing out in relief. “Oh?” he said, cocking his eyebrow over at Nico. Nico rolled over and straddled Joe’s hips, his hands sliding into Joe’s hair once they were aligned, Joe's hands resting on his ass.

“Tease,” he said, and kissed him. Their tongues slid together lazily for a few seconds before Nico pulled away so he could eye the man beneath him. This wonderful man, who was funny and kind and smart, who had twice made him come harder in the space of a few hours than he had in his entire life, who knew his secret desires and hadn’t shied away from them, had actually enjoyed exploiting them. _How did I get so lucky?_ he wondered again. _Everything happens for a reason_ , whispered back. He tried to ignore it. 

“What are you thinking?” Joe breathed.

 _Courage, and the truth. It's what he deserves._ “That I am lucky to have found you.”

Joe’s smile grew slowly, shyer than Nico had ever seen it, his dimples standing out in relief from the pressure of trying to keep it in. He bit his lip. “I feel the same way, Nicky.” Joe's hands slid up his back and pulled him down into a tight embrace. "Very lucky."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did we all have a good time? 😬 I hope we did.


	14. the doorway to a thousand churches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay; the holidays really got away from me. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Time on set passed in a blur of work and desire; the days spent filming or waiting around to film and the nights spent – well.

Joe’s cheeks warmed as he thought about what he'd been getting up to over the past couple of nights and he cast a bashful glance over at Nicky, who stood speaking with Quynh just outside of the white plastic tent in which Joe currently sat. He was gesticulating in that understated yet innately Italian way that Joe had begun to think of as a uniquely Nicky form of communication. It meant, _I am very passionate about this, and I want you to know that I am, but I am trying my hardest not to offend you with my strong opinions._ Lots of open palms and mouth wiping and clenched hands on hips.

 _I wonder if he likes being tied up so much because it helps him stop thinking_. _Without his hands, it's not possible to form the thoughts._ He smiled to himself and eyed his steaming tea. Maybe someday he’d gag him and force him to stay entirely quiet for, say, fifteen minutes, as Joe sucked him off. His eyes sized up Nicky’s ass under his tight jeans. Spank him if he made a sound.

He sighed as he felt arousal blooming hot under his skin at the thought. They’d only been together once in the past week and a half or so, and that had been a quick thing, nothing more than their mouths pressed together as they furtively jacked each other off against the wall of a trailer at the edge of camp one night. Joe had been able to hear Quynh laughing as he came; it had been both insanely hot and very stupid. They’d agreed afterwards that they should probably cool it on the sneaking – the camp was too small and the crew too tight-knit for people not to notice something – and resume fucking around when they got back to Rome. It would only be a few weeks, after all.

And Joe had mainly been okay with that decision, he really had, but every night when he sobbed out an orgasm and lay there covered in his rapidly cooling come, he couldn’t help but wish that Nicky was sprawled out with him, gazing up at him with that dazed look of awe and gratitude and contentment on his beautiful face. 

But today - today was tough. Last night, as he’d flicked on his prostate massager in the shower – deeply grateful to his past self for saying _fuck it_ and packing it – he'd replayed their night together in his head, and he’d realized that Nicky had come after Joe had told him not to, and that he'd promised he'd punish him if he did so. Today, it was all he could think about. Today, he felt a little crazed. He looked over at Nicky, who was still gesticulating at Quynh, and thought about holding his longish hair and coming on his face and mustache and then licking it off.

Joe almost jumped when Lykon sat down heavily across from him with his own boiling mug. “Christ it’s cold,” he said without preamble. His jacket’s hood was pulled up and cinched tight. Snow covered the faux fur around his face. His breath fogged the air.

“It is,” Joe responded mildly, trying not to betray his rapidly beating heart. _Maybe I should stop openly ogling and fantasizing about Nicky when around the person who is literally paid for his ability to spot hidden moments._

But Lykon just blew into his hands to warm them up; it didn’t seem like he’d noticed anything unusual. “I wish we were filming this damn thing in the spring. Supposedly it’s bloody perfect here in May.”

“Alas,” said Joe, as he took out the tea bag from his now steeped tea and dropped it onto the plastic tablecloth.

“Alas indeed.” Lykon took a sip of his tea. He eyed him through the condensation. “I hear you’re from Atlanta?”

“Yep.”

“Hotlanta, right?”

Joe laughed. “No one calls it that, but, yes, it is hot.”

“I’ve been there a few times – considered buying a place for a while, there’s so much filming happening.”

Joe nodded. That was certainly true enough – he’d had bit parts in three – four? - shows that were produced in Atlanta. “Yeah – it’s funny – I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there when I was a kid and now I keep going back for jobs. Though I _will_ say, being able to see so much live music growing up was great.”

Lykon hummed in agreement. “Best American hip hop for sure. Do you like Outkast?”

Joe grinned, thinking of the time he’d spent as a stoned and happy teenager at various Outkast concerts. “Well, liking Outkast is basically a contractual obligation as an Atlantan, but yes, I also happen to like them a lot. I’ve seen Big Boi in concert maybe five times.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Nicky cross his arms from his chest and nod once to Quynh in a definitive sort of manner – which Joe was fairly sure meant _I’m not happy about it, but I concede to you_ – before he caught Joe’s eyes. He began walking over.

“I’m assuming you do?” he continued, doing his best to pretend as if he weren’t secretly thrilling about Nicky coming over to them.

Lykon acknowledged Nicky’s arrival with a head nod and said to Joe, “They’re my all time favorite. Nothing better.”

“You know they called me The South in high school?”

“Because you always had something to say?” Lykon asked.

“Exactly.” Joe grinned at Lykon’s delighted laugh and turned to Nicky, thinking _what perfect fucking timing_. _Look at how fucking charming and wonderful I am, Nicky. Remember it, and let me sneak into your trailer tonight._ “You and Quynh sort it out?” he asked.

“We did,” Nicky responded shortly as he sat next to Joe. “What is it that you two are laughing about?”

“Ah – I’m glad you asked,” Joe said expansively, before Lykon could get a word in. “Lykon and I are just bonding over music. We’ve just delighted each other by my making and his understanding a deep-cut reference to a speech Andre3000 gave roughly two decades ago. Wouldn’t you say that’s true Lykon?”

Lykon grinned. “It is indeed.”

“So, I’m pretty sure we’re friends now,” Joe finished, as he looked back to Nicky, who had a small smile on his face that Joe had seen before, but hadn’t been able to interpret yet.

“Absolutely,” Lykon agreed. “And speaking of music. Nicolo, did you bring your guitar by any chance?” Nicky nodded his head to say _no_.

“You play?” Joe asked. _God help me if he plays the guitar, I won’t be able to stand it_.

“I do.”

“Sings, too. When we worked together on _Silenzio_ – what, five years ago?” he asked Nicky, who nodded again, this time to say _yes, “_ He was good, so I imagine he’s just gotten better.” He took a sip of his tea. “I think Gianni brought his guitar, anyways. What do you reckon? Some music tonight, if you’re up for it?”

“Only if it is requested.” His eyes flicked over to Joe’s.

 _I have so many requests, Nicolo_ , he thought. “Oh, it’ll definitely be requested,” Joe responded with what he hoped was a normal ‘I’m not thinking about basting Nicky’s face with my come’ kind of smile.

The clapper loader – Luciana, Joe thought her name was – wandered over with her clapperboard and said something in Italian he didn’t understand, but he got the gist when Nicky and Lykon stood. _Break’s over._ They headed out into the snow.

* * *

Later that evening Joe sat again around the fire as he had for every night over the past week and a half, laughing and chatting with some of the team. Behind him was another, larger group huddled around a few freestanding heaters – well, huddled around the makeshift bar that also happened to have a few heaters around it, more like. There was general merriment in the near-constant hum of conversation, with an occasional crescendo of laughter; the peaks and valleys of a good party. Tonight was their last free evening – they would be transitioning into five straight night shoots to close out their time in Calabria – and people apparently wanted to take advantage. A cheer went up from the group around the bar. Shots, he guessed. He shuddered. Shots were a young person’s game.

The sky was clear and the stars glittered above them, bright in the frigid air. Joe stretched out his legs and crossed his feet at the ankles, leaned in towards the fire so that he could feel the heat on his feet and his face. He glanced at the group around him. Most of the older people were around the fire – Quynh, himself, Nicky and a few other department heads. Lykon was with the other group – Joe had been shocked to learn that he was only thirty or so; he’d managed to get to a frankly extraordinary position at such a young age. When he’d asked how, Quynh had told him he had an ‘old soul’, whatever that meant. He just knew it made him feel old as hell. _At least we like the same music,_ he thought.

He looked over his shoulder back at Nicky, who was of course sitting beside him. “You know what’s missing?” he muttered.

Nicky shot him a quelling look – the one that said _not now, there are people present –_ before he responded, “Must I guess?”

Joe grinned. “Well, that wasn’t my intention, but now that you mention it…”

Nicky raised an eyebrow. “Those chocolate jelly crackers you Americans like to melt over a fire?”

It took a second, and a delighted bark of laugh emerged when he realized. “S’mores? Chocolate, graham crackers and marshmallows?”

“I suppose.”

“’Those chocolate jelly crackers,’” Joe muttered to himself, delighted. _What a mis-translation._ “Have you ever had one? Your tone indicates a significant level of snobbery for such a fucking delicious treat.”

Nicky’s nose wrinkled and his mouth downturned as if he’d heard something _deeply_ distasteful. “No.”

“Is this like the pineapple on pizza debate? Because I stand by my assertion that you absolutely cannot categorically say something is bad unless you’ve tasted it,” he said laughing. “And it is insane to suggest you just _know_.”

Nicky’s mouth was beginning to twitch upwards into a smile; his transitional _I know I am being ridiculous but I still think I’m correct_ expression that would – if Joe played his cards right – bloom into one of the rare open mouthed smiles he’d begun to treasure as if they were fucking diamonds.

“But I do just _know_ , Joe.” He smirked. “I am Italian. We have never been wrong about anything before, and it certainly will not happen now.”

Joe chuckled, pleased as always by his wry sarcasm. “I beg your pardon Mr. di Genova, how could I possibly have forgotten your inherent European superiority?”

Nicky’s smirk deepened, his eyes crinkling. “I will forgive you, but please do not make the mistake of forgetting again.”

Joe leaned back and turned into Nicky’s ear. “Or what?” he whispered darkly, the unspoken threat lingering in the air between them. Joe’s gaze flicked down to Nicky’s exposed neck, where he saw goosebumps. He smiled to himself. _Too easy._

“Anyways,” he said casually, leaning towards the fire again. “What I was going to say before you so rudely slandered a great American dessert, is that _music_ is missing.” He cocked his head at him. “Where’s that guitar?”

He saw Nicky’s blush even in the darkness as he looked around the group. “I don’t wish to impose – people are enjoying themselves.”

“I bet they’d enjoy themselves more with some music.” Joe smiled. “I’d love to hear you sing something.”

“I am not sure, Joe.”

“Nicolo,” he said calmly.

He watched as Nicky’s gears turned, his gaze never leaving Joe’s. _It’s not a request,_ he thought, and tried to show that in his expression. “Okay,” he said, finally.

“I’ll be right back then.” Joe got up and went to find Gianni, who apparently had the guitar. Ten minutes later he returned, guitar and pick in hand. “Ask and ye shall receive,” Joe said, as he handed the instrument to Nicky by the neck. He sat back down.

“Oh, I have not heard you play for ages, Nico!” Joe thought he heard Quynh say from her spot at the other side of the fire – her mouth was entirely covered by her scarf. She lowered the material so that she could be heard better. “Joe, did you put him up to this?”

“I did,” Joe responded. “Lykon mentioned Nicolo could play and I wanted to hear.”

“Well, well done you, normally only Andy can get him to play in public.”

Joe filed that knowledge away for inspection at a later date.

Nicky had lit a cigarette while Joe fetched the guitar, and it dangled now from his lower lip as he removed his gloves and quickly tuned the strings. He watched his body, apparently so at ease holding the instrument and felt the now familiar admiration for this mystery of a man settle low and warm in his belly. He was just so quietly competent; so different from Joe, who felt like he was always talking, always trying to fill the silence with proof of his value.

Nicky handed his cigarette to Joe – a thoughtless gesture that made him glow with something like pride. He’d never felt so much like Nicky’s boyfriend.

“Please, sing along if you know the words,” Nicky said to the group, and the words settled heavy in Joe’s guts; the melodic accent in that voice, the weight of it. _And he’s all mine_ , he thought.

Nicky began plucking out the opening notes to “Blackbird” and Joe was instantly transported back to his parents’ kitchen, one summer night when he was a kid – his mother singing along to The Beatles while they chopped up vegetables for her enchiladas. One of his white friends must have been coming over that night; she only ever made that dish to accommodate what she considered their criminal inability to handle her usual spice levels. He hummed along with Nicky’s gentle baritone and smiled at the memory. _I really need to call her,_ he thought, as the song came to an end.

He cycled through some more Beatles, then Fleetwood Mac, David Bowie, Talking Heads– the classics, ones that at least one person around the fire, regardless of nationality, seemed to know. He did really have a lovely voice, a baritone that easily dipped lower when needed, smooth and mellow. Joe kept handing the cigarette to Nicky between songs, and every time it sent a thrill through him. _Mine, mine, mine_ , his heart drummed, the sweetest accompaniment to Nicky’s strumming and singing.

More people had drifted over to the fire as he played, drawn by the music and warmth, so by the time Nicky said, “This will be the last one,” to the group, there were over a dozen people sitting or standing with them, listening and occasionally singing along.

He began strumming a tune Joe didn’t recognize, twenty or so seconds of seemingly complicated plucking before the opening lyrics. _Love, I get so lost sometimes,_ he sang, and the realization that it was “In Your Eyes” hit Joe like a ton of bricks. Suddenly he was fifteen again, watching _Say Anything_ on VHS in his parent’s den, praying that someday, someone would love him the way Lloyd Dobler loved Diane Court. The lyrics came back to him from the depths of his memory and before he realized it, he was singing along with the group. Joe was no Peter Gabriel, but he was conscious that their voices sounded good together. Harmonious. Nicky glanced over and shot him a quick little smile and it made him _shiver_. Something about their connection – its resonance – mixed with the lyrics and his childhood longings affected him practically the same way kissing Nicky did. His body rang; he felt like a tuning fork vibrating to Nicky’s frequency.

The lyrics ended but Nicky continued strumming along, accompanied by the crackle and pop of the fire. He sang _in your eyes_ once more to close out the final notes, the sound hovering over the party before floating into the dark sky with the dancing sparks from the fire.

The group clapped and whistled and Nicky waved their applause away with a smile. He watched as Nicky awkwardly attempted to pull his gloves from one pocket while still keeping the guitar on his lap. He wanted to take his hands in his own and warm them up, but since he couldn’t do that – too many fucking eyes – he offered to hold the guitar instead, so Nicky could get his gloves on.

“That was wonderful, Nicky,” Joe said quietly, too dazzled to remember not to use _Nicolo’s_ nickname.

“Thank you Joe. I am glad you decided to join in.” His voice was deeper than usual, and just like that, he needed to get him alone, cast and crew be damned, to communicate with his body everything he’d felt over the past twenty minutes: awe, gratitude, desire.

“Meet me in my trailer in ten minutes?” Joe whispered. _Please._ Nicky’s eyes darted around the fire. People were talking in groups and no one seemed to be paying attention to their conversation.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Ten minutes.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, when Nicky silently entered Joe’s trailer, Joe took him by the hand and led him to the bed, gently pushing him to lie down.

“I’ve always had a thing for musicians,” Joe whispered, as he pulled off his sweater and began to unbutton his shirt.

“Oh yes? I should have told you I played weeks ago then,” Nicky responded. Joe finished unbuttoning and began to shrug off his shirt when Nicky said, “Keep it on.” Joe’s eyes snapped up to Nicky’s, which were ultramarine in the low light – dark as the bottom of the sea. “Please.”

Joe cocked an eyebrow down at him and left his shirt on and open as he stepped between Nicky's spread legs that still dangled off the edge of the bed. “Of course.” He ran his hands up Nicky’s strong thighs to his fly and began to unbutton and unzip. “I hope you know that if you tell me you want something, I’ll do it.” Nicky nodded, and Joe watched as his adam’s apple bobbed on a deep swallow.

“I'm learning that, I think,” he whispered in response.

“Good. So what do you want?” Joe’s hand ducked under the waistband, pushing it down to expose the tip of Nicky’s rapidly hardening cock.

“Whatever _you_ want, Joe.”

“Whatever _I_ want? Hmm.” Joe circled the base of Nicky’s cock between his thumb and finger and watched as it grew under his light strokes. “I want you to take off your clothes.” Nicky quickly stripped off his sweater and t-shirt, then his jeans, underwear and socks. With a sigh, he laid back naked against the sheets. Joe’s eyes devoured every inch of his pale flesh, thinking of his options as he slowly stroked Nicky’s cock. He wanted to rouse everything he could in him – wanted to make him moan and plead, whimper and beg, fall in love with him. He thought of those strong, capable hands running along the frets of the guitar; his mouth and tongue and fingers working in concert to coax out those lovely sounds. He thought of how much Nicky loved to suffer.

Suddenly, he knew exactly what he wanted.

“I want you to use those lovely, talented fingers and that lovely, talented mouth on me.” He put his hands to Nicky’s hips and Nicky gasped when he yanked him to the end of the bed so his spread legs were flush against Joe’s cock. “I want you to lick and finger me open and swallow my cock and make me come.”

“Yes,” Nicky hissed, his back arching in a graceful curve, his eyes drifting shut.

“And I don’t want you to come,” he continued, casually. Nicky’s eyes snapped open.

“Why not?” he practically spat out.

“Because it’s what _I_ want, Nicolo.” He smiled genuinely and ran his hands up Nicky’s sides. “Do you remember the first night we were here? I told you not to come, but you did, didn’t you?”

Nicky’s eyes widened. “Joe – that was…over a week ago.”

Joe shrugged. “I told you not to come or I’d punish you. You seemed to like it at the time.”

Nicky was silent for a moment and then he grinned and propped himself up on his elbows. “Joseph Al-Kaysani, you are a fucking asshole.”

“Am I?” He grinned back, pleased. “I’m going to quickly wash.” He pulled off the rest of his clothes. “Get the lube, and then lay back on the sheets and think about what a cheeky little shit you were, and how you deserve this, and how you’re going to make it up to me. Yes?”

Nicky’s throat worked in tight, short swallows; his lids fluttered shut before lifting to reveal a dark, excited gaze. He licked his lips. “Yes, _sir,_ ” he murmured, and even though it was clichéd and trite and overdone, God help him, it fucking _worked_.

Joe leaned down as Nicky sat up, and their mouths came together in the middle.

Joe thought that he could kiss Nicky for hours – days – years – fuck it, millennia - and not get tired of it. Nicky’s soft lips and gentle tongue, his hands running through his hair – just that, just lips and tongue and fingers, and Joe would be content. Nicky kissed like he _meant it_ , was the thing, like he was Joe’s master and kissing him was the only way to bring him to heel. It was a tricky thing, their dance: for him, submission in dominance; for Nicky, dominance in submission. The truth was, Joe was entirely at his mercy, just as Nicky appeared to be at his. _But he is your master_ , his desire whispered to him. _You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?_ He was starting to think that he would.

At that thought Joe moaned and pulled away. Panting, he pressed his forehead to Nicky’s.

“Five minutes,” he said. “Give me five minutes.”


	15. Sex, Both Real and Imagined

_I don’t want you to come._

Joe’s order sank into Nico’s bones like melted sugar, painfully hot and sweet. He listened to the water running and forced himself to stay still on the bed, to think about how he _deserved_ this, as Joe had commanded him to. A rush of arousal went through him at both thoughts – the command and his disgrace - hot pressure moving from his chest to sit low in his belly and fill out his cock again.

Joe was magical.

The water shut off. Nico lay in the quiet, trying to even his breathing, waiting for Joe to emerge. The door opened, the lights turned off, and Joe’s shadowy form leaned its shoulder against the wall, arms and legs crossed. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel Joe’s dark eyes on him.

“So hard,” Joe breathed out scornfully. “How are you going to be able to keep it together, Nicky?” A breath shuddered out of him at Joe’s tone. _I have absolutely no idea,_ he thought. His silence answered for him. Joe sighed. “Worthless,” he said, and Nico’s dick twitched, the word pulling him further into the sweetest, darkest shame. “Hands and knees.”

Nico scrambled over at the order, bracing his weight on his joints, his heart pounding. For long moments, Joe said nothing. He heard a pop and snap – the cap on the bottle of lube opening and closing. Moments later, a soft gasp and the slick unmistakable sound of Joe touching himself. He was watching Nico, and touching himself. _God._ He began to turn but Joe immediately murmured, “Eyes forward, Nicolo.”

He obeyed, and a shiver – a true, full body shiver – ran through him.

“Why are you kneeling?” His voice was like smoke, curling and portentous.

“Because I came after you told me not to.”

“Correct.” His hand caressed his ass; one cheek and then the other. “I swear I’ve thought about this ass every day for weeks,” he muttered as he climbed onto the bed and arranged himself behind Nico. His hand slid along the curve of Nico’s spine up, up, up into his hair before he fisted the strands and _pulled_ , exposing Nico’s neck. He gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet of the space. “God, you’re beautiful,” Joe whispered. Another gasp came from Nico’s lips then, quieter though; a soft exclamation of pleasure at the words, which sounded as if they’d been unplanned.

“I want to make you come,” Nico breathed. Joe didn’t respond, one hand still clenching in Nico’s hair, the other stroking up and down his back and ass. “Please.”

Nothing. What was he thinking? He longed to turn his head, to see what was in his eyes… to perhaps earn more punishment. But obedience felt right – he wanted to be whatever it was Joe wanted; wanted to take his orders, be his perfect servant, make him shudder and moan the way he had the first night. He wanted to give Joe even a fraction of what he’d given Nico. “ _Please,_ Joe.”

“You want whatever I want, isn’t that right?” he finally asked.

“Yes.” _Everything; anything._

Joe’s hand left his hair and trailed down and around Nico’s torso. He wrapped his long fingers around Nico’s cock in a loose fist, his other hand lay flat against his ass.

“Fuck my hand,” he ordered, his voice as glacial as Nico could have ever desired in his most heated dreams.

Feeling simultaneously aroused and embarrassed, Nico rolled his hips forward. “I thought that you did not want me to come,” he murmured.

“I don’t,” Joe said. The fingers of his other hand ran lazily up and down Nico’s spine. “Faster, Nicky.” With a surrendering groan Nico began moving faster, his head swimming with the paradoxical impossibility of the test and the inherent indignity of humping the air – animalistic and desperate – the rush of all of it, making him feel lightheaded. A deep moan came from Joe, and arousal pulsed through Nico at the sound. _He likes what he sees._ A few more strokes and he began to pant, close already from the degradation and the realization that Joe was just as affected.

“You’re close?” His short nails raked his ass and Nico gasped.

“No,” he said. He wanted to know what disobedience might bring.

“Liar.” The first slap landed with a sting, heat blooming under his skin.

“ _Oh._ ”

“Tell me the truth.” The second slap was harder, but the pain disappeared quickly, leaving behind only the heavy embers of blessed debasement. He dropped to his forearms under the weight of it as Joe began to stroke Nico’s cock in earnest, drawing his fist from the head to the base and back again. Slick. “You’re so _wet_ , Nicky. Why won’t you just tell me the truth?”

Nico’s ribs expanded and collapsed with heaving breaths but he said nothing. His face burned with defiance and excitement.

“Greedy,” Joe said, landing a blow that jolted his hips forward _._ “Disobedient.” Another smack. “Slut.” He spanked him again – _hard_. “Tell me.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Nico gasped, his voice raw. “Yes, I’m close, Joe, _please.”_ He sucked in a trembling breath, fighting for control as Joe's stroking sped up.

“You’d come again, without my permission?”

“Oh.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the scorn, willing himself not to come, because he felt like he could come from that alone.

“Look at me,” he said sharply. He obeyed, and met Joe’s dark eyes with his. They narrowed at him, looking displeased. His hips stuttered through Joe’s tightly grasped fist. “Stop.” Genuine distress passed through him, but he slowed and then stilled. His hands clenched in the bedsheets as he tried to control his trembling. He didn’t take his eyes from Joe’s.

“You were going to come,” Joe murmured, as he removed his hand from Nico’s cock and began to stroke his own cock with Nico’s wetness. “That’s disappointing, Nicolo,” he tutted. He nudged his knees wider apart and rubbed his other hand against Nico's still burning skin, soothing it somewhat. He watched as Joe's eyes dropped down to his ass, staring at it with an appraising look in his eye. He didn't look at Nico as he slid his length between his cheeks, and Nico fought the urge to close his eyes against the pleasure of it, because he wanted to see _everything_ ; he felt exposed and cared for and humiliated and fucking _wonderful_ and he didn't want to miss a goddamn thing. So he saw, when Joe's eyes closed and his mouth dropped open on a moan as he thrust against him, glorious arousal plain on his perfect face. _He’s close_. The realization made him feel dizzy. Joe was close, from what they were doing together. Fucking magical.

The head of his cock caught on the rim of Nico’s hole and he moaned - an unbridled thing. Joe’s eyes jumped back up to Nico’s. _Do it,_ he thought desperately. _Fuck me. Slide into me without a condom, fill me up with your come, do it._

“No,” Joe murmured, as if he’d heard Nico’s thoughts – it must have been all over his face. He shook his head as if clearing it. “Not yet. That's a reward." He dropped back on his heels and crawled up the bed, flopping onto his front with what Nico suspected was a falsely indifferent sigh. “Make me come."

He stared at Joe, blinking. It took a few shaky breaths before his words made sense. “Of course,” he finally said. _He’s really not going to let me come. Cruel, wonderful man._ He crawled down between Joe’s legs and pulled him up onto his knees. “I’ll make you come so hard that _you_ forget English, this time.”

Joe chuckled softly and raised a skeptical eyebrow over his shoulder. “You’re talking a big game. English is my first language, remember?”

He responded with silence and a determined grin, remembering what Joe had told him earlier. _I want you to lick and finger me open and swallow my cock and make me come_. He could do that. He pressed two open mouthed kisses to the dimples at the base of Joe’s back and then gently spread his cheeks, burying his face in between, licking a stripe from beneath his balls to his hole and then putting all of his concentration on working him open.

Joe sighed brokenly. “Fuck that’s good, Nicky.”

Nico wrapped his arms around Joe’s thighs and moaned in response, his fingers digging into the strong muscles of his ass, his tongue licking fast around the rim. Joe reached back, sliding his hand into Nico's hair, fisting the strands and pulling him impossibly closer. He moaned deeply and a head rush rocked through him at Joe’s responsiveness, making him bold. He pulled away and quickly found the lube, poured some onto his fingers, and watched with wonder as he sank his middle finger into Joe up to the first knuckle.

“ _Yes_ ,” Joe hissed.

“That feels good?”

“Nicky, _yes_ it feels good, keep going.” He tilted his head back down and set to licking and fingering him open, adding another finger, then another, saliva running messily from his mouth to cover Joe’s thighs, and quickly – very quickly – Joe was an incoherent mess above him. He pulled away and crooked his fingers, trying to find his prostate…Joe stiffened and moaned, pushing back against Nico’s fingers. _There_. “God, I want to fuck you,” he said, unthinking.

“Yeah?” Joe gasped. “Tell me how you want to.” Just that simple command and the evidence of Joe’s arousal was enough to make Nico’s cock pulse and leak onto the mattress. He groaned.

“I want…” he trailed off. He’d never been particularly adept at voicing his desires – see, the past twenty or so years of his sex life – but for Joe… _Be obedient. Tell him the truth._ He took a deep breath. “I want you to use me.”

“Good,” Joe murmured. “More.”

“I would be… I would be on top. Wrap a rope around my neck and make me fuck you. Tighten it when I don’t fuck you the right way.”

“ _Jesus_ , Nicky.” His hips rolled back like he wanted more, so Nico added his little finger. It thrilled him down to his bones, the way Joe seemed to take as much pleasure from his thoughts as his hands. He wanted to see what was in his face. He withdrew his fingers and with a rough push, turned him onto his back. Joe’s handsome face was strained, his muscles heaving with fierce breaths. “You are so fucking hot, Joe.”

Joe smiled, a quick strained thing, and wiped at his mouth. “Me? You’re going to fucking kill me, Nicky.” He huffed out a strangled laugh. “Now, make me come.”

Nico’s cock was throbbing now, from the command, Joe’s voice, his shuddering gasps. He could come from this alone, just the exchange, just the proof of Joe’s desire – his eyes open, with no more pressure on his cock than the fucking air. _This glorious fucking man._ He sank down gratefully onto Joe’s cock, opening his mouth and then his throat, wanting to utterly spoil him.

Joe let out a rapturous moan, his hands flying down to hold Nico’s head. He fisted his hair and _pulled_ and it fucking hurt, God it fucking hurt. _Again. More._ Joe’s fingers tightened again and he thrust up into Nico’s mouth. Nico breathed through his nose and blindly reached down to his hole and slid his fingers back into him.

Joe seized, his mouth opening on a soundless moan as he pressed up into his mouth and then down against his fingers and Nico could feel him unraveling – his clenching muscles squeezing and his cock spurting, filling him up with come, so much come, and he moaned through it, swallowing it all, because that was what would Joe would want.

He pulled away and dropped his head against Joe’s thigh, closing his eyes and breathing heavily, willing his cock to calm, because he couldn’t come, he needed to –

Joe pulled him up by his hair, hard and surprising, and furiously turned him onto his back. He fisted Nico’s throbbing cock before his mouth enveloped the head.

“Fuck,” Nico hissed, his back arching against the feeling. “Joe, stop, I’ll come-“

His mouth popped off his cock as he cast his dark eyes up to meet Nico’s. “Good. Come for me.” His lips dropped back down.

So he did as commanded and came, long and sweet; the overwhelming pleasure of defeat and pure surrender, trembling and moaning as he emptied into Joe's perfect mouth.

He came down from it slowly and was welcomed back to his body by the soft brown eyes and smug smile of Joe’s lovely face hovering above his own. “Ya ilahi,” he murmured.

“What?” He felt _high_ , floating and content.

“'Oh my God.' You made me forget English.”

“Did I?” he said, stupidly.

“No,” Joe said with a grin. Nico laughed, surprised. “I’m not sure that’s possible. But if anyone could…” He trailed off and they stared at each other for a long moment, a tightness growing in Nico’s chest, almost overwhelming. Nico’s hands slid against Joe’s back, pulling him down, and their lips and tongues came together on a sigh. _He feels so right_ , Nico thought, and with it, came a new sensation – the prickling of nerves behind his nose. Tears bloomed – tears of gratitude and relief, a shimmering recognition of something like joy. He held them in.

“Is it alright that I made you come?” Joe asked, as he laid his head against Nico’s chest.

Nico laughed and carded his hand through Joe’s short curls. He felt Joe’s rumble of contentment at the sensation against his sternum. “Of course. I will never turn down an orgasm offered to me on a silver platter.”

He felt Joe’s smile against his skin. “No, I mean – I changed my mind. I told you I wouldn’t let you come and then I made you. Would you have preferred not to?”

Nico wondered how many times he’d thought, _this wonderful man_ , since he’d met Joe. Too many to count.

He continued. “I just… I want to see you come. Your face, when you do, the look on it. The way you lose control, knowing I’m the one who’s given that to you.” Joe caught Nico’s gaze. “It’s all I’ve thought about, every night. It’s selfish, maybe, to change my mind, I just….”

“Oh, Joe.” His heart beat heavy in his chest as he looked down at the remarkable man in his arms. The most handsome, funny, thoughtful man he’d ever met. “I would have been content not to come if that would have pleased you. If you want me to come, I am more than happy to do so. Besides, I like selfish.”

Joe’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Whatever I want, huh? You’re fucking fascinating.”

“Well, not _whatever,_ ” he protested.

“Of course not. But we have ‘pineapple’ for that.” They smiled at each other. Joe’s fingertips drew patterns against Nico’s chest, above his heart, and he was utterly unsurprised at the three terrifying words that again curled through his mind. His throat constricted, tight enough to let him know that it wouldn’t allow him to voice it.

So instead he held Joe and counted the freckles on his face, thinking, _beautiful._

* * *

Two nights later, Nico stood in the soft blue light of dusk, staring out over the mountains that rose and fell all around them, smoking a cigarette, and trying to ignore the camera that was at that moment about a meter from his face, hoisted over Lykon’s right shoulder.

“Look into the camera, please, Nicolo,” Lykon asked. He did. “Perfect, thank you.” Lykon stepped back a bit. “Gio, good to go?” he asked over his shoulder.

“ _Si_ ,” said Gio, who adjusted the bounce board to catch more of the sun’s waning rays. “Quynh?” Quynh dropped a little stool next to Lykon and stepped onto it to see the video assist.

“Joe, come in.” She waved him to come into frame and Nico reflexively smiled at Joe as he came to stand just next to him. “Look into the camera?” Joe did. “Perfect.” She stepped off of her little stool.

“Are you two ready?” she asked. “Please say yes, because the light is changing very quickly.”

“Ready, boss,” said Joe. Nico nodded and dropped his cigarette, stubbing it out beneath the heel of his boot. “Ready.”

“Alright then. Places please.”

Nico walked over to his imaginary marker, literally a large stick since they were outside and on a limited crew – sex scenes always being closed sets, per Gita’s recommendations. He looked out over the mountains. It was the moment of truth. They’d rehearsed it dozens of times. He took a few seconds to get himself into character.

_I’m having a cigarette to calm myself down. Dante has just tricked me into writing a ‘letter’ which let him detail everything he wants to do to me. I’m fucking terrified of what I want. I want him._

“Roll camera,” he heard Quynh say. A few seconds later, “Action.”

Geno withdrew a cigarette from the pack of his jacket pocket and lit it, inhaling deeply, trying to calm his still rapidly beating heart. Dante knew that he wanted him – he _knew_ , and what the fuck was he going to do about that? He heard the crunching leaves that signaled someone’s arrival. Dante’s, since no one else was on this god-forsaken fucking mountain.

“You think I’m scared of you still, don’t you?” Dante said. He sounded pissed off and tired. “Well, I’m not. Not anymore.”

Geno blew smoke out over the mountains, and very deliberately did not turn to look at him. “No?”

“No. I think you’re completely full of shit.” _Correct on that, Dante_ , he thought. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know.” He paused, and his voice was softer when he next spoke. “I _know_ , Geno.”

He turned to look at Dante, who was much closer than he’d realized. No one snuck up on Geno more than once; God, he really was fucking distracted. He raised a disinterested eyebrow. “Know what?”

Dante’s head jerked back, and his furious eyes bore into Geno’s. “Oh come _on_ , Geno. No more games! I’m fucking tired of it.”

 _Me too, but there isn’t shit we can do about it._ “I don’t know what to tell you, Dante.”

Dante’s back straightened and he took a halting step towards him. “Bullshit,” he said with deadly seriousness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, deliberately sounding as unapologetic as possible. He needed to get Dante away from him. He should probably tie him up again; nevermind that he’d never get to safety this far away from civilization even without his hands tied; it was pure stupidity – softheartedness, affection, whatever – that’d led to him untying the rope that was normally around Dante’s wrists.

“I’m sure you are.” Dante took a deep breath and his nostrils flared, but he seemed to calm. “I’ll ask one more time, as clearly as I can, and then never again – do you understand? Never again.” He rubbed at his temple before dropping his arm back to his side, frustration in every movement. “Do you want me?” Geno didn’t respond – couldn’t say yes, couldn’t say no. “Do you want me?” he asked again. He waited, and Geno felt his soft brown eyes on him. “It’s a simple yes or no question, Geno, and it’s the last time I ask.”

He knew what he should say. He knew. It was insanity – all of this was insanity. He could _not_ become involved with the man he was being paid to keep hostage. It was madness. “No.”

“ _Liar,”_ Dante spat out.

At the word, Nico suddenly remembered the spanking Joe had given him after calling him a liar a few nights before. His lips curled into a smirk that Joe apparently understood because he narrowed his eyes and ad-libbed, echoing what’d he said that night. “Tell me the truth.”

Nico pulled himself back into the scene; Geno stayed still as Dante stalked to him and grabbed him roughly by the arm. He pushed back and Dante stumbled, taking both of them down hard to the ground. Geno _wanted it_ , but he couldn’t give in, not to this fucking cocky bastard, no matter how fucking good-looking and charming he was. No matter than he made him laugh. He got in a good punch to Dante’s stomach as they tussled before he found himself pinned to the ground on his back, with Dante panting furiously above him. They stared at each other, chests heaving, and Geno thought, _Fuck it_ , and suddenly they were tearing at each other’s clothes, Geno desperate to see and feel Dante’s hard muscles and soft skin. Dante’s shirt was undone but still on when Geno flipped him over and began to attack his tight jeans, needing to see what he’d been dreaming of for so long, the instrument of his damnation.

Nico bobbed his head against nothing, simulating a blowjob, noting with satisfaction that Joe was incredibly hard, and wishing in a moment of insanity that he could just free his cock and suck it down for real. It would be easier than faking it. Dante’s hands landed in his hair and he let out a pained groan.

“Cut!”

Nico rolled off of Joe and laid on his back on the ground next to him, his chest heaving. Joe’s head rolled over to look at him and Nico laughed in relief at how good the scene had felt. All of the worry about how sleeping together might affect the film, and here they were. It had been fucking _good_ , he knew it.

“That’s a wrap,” said Quynh. “Would you two like to put all of your clothes back on?”

He laughed again and resisted the urge to take Joe’s hand, to kiss the palm of his hand and thank him for every fucking thing he’d given him. The best sex of his life, laughter, conversation, and now, a marvelous fucking performance. _God bless Joseph Al-Kaysani_.


	16. Hang the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a casual crisis of faith in my writing over the past couple of weeks, and was able to get out from under it with the help of a few people that I'd like to quickly acknowledge:  
> Ven - for being such an enthusiastic cheer-reader.  
> Marivan - for being a cheerleader, hand-holder, and my first ever beta reader. I have been entirely spoiled by your thoughtful comments and suggestions. 
> 
> And everyone else leaving comments and kudos - thank you times a million. Everyone of them means...well, more than words can say. The irony.
> 
> Enjoy!

Joe was just about to come around the corner of a large generator smack in the middle of set to grab some coffee from craft services – because he was fucking sleepy and he wanted something warm to hold onto because it was _cold,_ that night – when he heard them talking.

“You owe me some money Ly-kon,” said Quynh, in a sing-songy, needling tone of voice. Gloating over something, sounded like. Joe stopped walking, hunching slightly to hide himself entirely behind the generator. Eavesdropping was one of his crappier vices, but people often said hilarious shit when they thought they weren’t being listened to, and inspiration for bits struck at the oddest of times, so…well, he didn’t feel _that_ bad about it.

“All right, all right,” Lykon grumbled. “I’ll Verse it to you, yeah? It’ll magically appear in your bank account in three days or less.”

Quynh laughed with obvious delight. “I don’t know why you took the bet, you were not there for their chemistry test. I was.” _They’re talking about me and Nicky,_ he realized. Shock settled in his belly and spread gently to the tips of his fingers. _They_ bet _on us getting together?_ He didn’t move a muscle.

“I know, I know, I just…I’ve known Nicolo for a long time, and old mate is as professional as they come on set, you know?” 

Quynh made a noise of assent, and he heard what sounded like a sugar packet being opened.

 _They did. They fucking bet on us getting together. Those little shits._ A slow grin spread across his face. _This will be fun._ Joe emerged from his hiding spot.

Lykon continued. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him _flirt_ with anyone, plus I would’ve sworn on a stack of Bibles that Joe was straight –“

His mouth snapped shut when he noticed Joe walking over, and Joe watched with no little amount of satisfaction as Lykon’s face transformed into the human embodiment of the grimacing emoji. “Oh, hey… hey Joe,” he said weakly. 

“Well, hello there.” He smiled, casually. “Enjoying some coffee?”

Lykon’s eyes cut over to Quynh. What little color she had to begin with had drained out of her face at Joe’s arrival, and she looked at everything in the tent except for Joe. He half expected her to start whistling and twiddling her thumbs, like a cartoon version of herself, trying to escape notice. Joe grabbed a cup from the stack and put it under the spout of the carafe, his eyes not moving from their faces. He flipped the tap, and watched them stare at the coffee filling up his cup in complete and utter silence. Joe swore that he could hear the steam rising from his slowly filling mug, it was so quiet. _I was right: this_ is _fun,_ he thought. It was getting hard to keep a straight face. Joe let the silence draw out as he poured some milk into his coffee and took a sip, staring at each of them through the steam. “So. What are you two crazy kids talking about? You wouldn’t be… gossiping. Would you?”

“Did you…hear?” Lykon asked. He sounded terrified.

Joe grinned, with a touch of evil in his smile. “Oh, yes Lykon. I heard.”

“What we were talking about?”

“I sure did.”

“About you and Nicky?”

“Yep.” He took a sip of his coffee and let out an exaggerated sigh of contentment, his breath fogging the air in front of him. He cocked his eyebrow and waited.

Lykon and Quynh finally looked at each other. “Well, fuck,” Lykon sighed as Quynh giggled nervously. They told him everything.

* * *

At around three am that same morning, as Joe and Nicky stood rehearsing their lines for the next scene in the semi-darkness, Joe thought, _I should probably tell Nicky that everyone knows we’re fucking._ He looked over to the hustle of the crew setting up lights, cameras, and dollies, the bright faux white moonlight from the lighting balloon throwing their bright figures into harsh relief against the black background of the surrounding forest. 

_Nicky was only worried about people knowing because he thought they’d be worried about how it would affect the movie,_ he reminded himself. He thought back to Quynh and Lykon’s playful quips ( _You look at Nicky like he hangs the moon, mate. Doesn’t take Sherlock fucking Holmes to figure it out, you know?_ Lykon had said with an affectionate back slap, and _You do look at his ass quite often_ from Quynh, with a sly smile). They certainly hadn’t seemed too worried about how it would affect the film. 

And _did_ he look at Nicky like he hung the moon? What the fuck did “hang the moon” even mean? What a weird expression. He supposed that, if the moon weren’t hung correctly, it would be quite bad for the earth, because of tides or whatever, so the person who hung the moon would be very important. _Anyways, if Nicky’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness…well, I know already that he’s hung._ It was a terrible joke.

All right, so, fine, maybe Lykon was right that he looked at Nicky like he hung the moon _._ He _definitely_ looked at his ass often; Quynh had him dead to rights on that one.

He was still ruminating on all of it, when he said, without really thinking, “So, turns out that everyone knows we’re fucking.”

“ _What?”_ Nicky spat it out, his eyebrows practically flying up to his hairline. _Oops._

“Oh – well, I overheard Lykon and Quynh talking, and they… know.” _Better not mention the fucking bet they had about it._ “Apparently they weren’t completely sure until filming the sex scene tonight, though, if that makes you feel any better?”

Nicky’s hands ran through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. “How is that supposed to make me feel better, Joe?” 

Joe laughed. “You know, I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “Well, they didn’t seem especially bothered about it. Does that make you feel better instead?”

Nicky gesticulated through an outburst in Italian – one hand on hip, one hand flying through the air around his head - and though Joe wasn’t fluent in either Italian or Italian gesticulation, he was becoming fluent in Nicky, so he understood what it meant. It meant, _I fucking guess it makes me feel better, but goddamn it I’m still frustrated._

Joe grinned and bridged the few feet between then, gathering Nicky in his arms. His hands ran up and down the soft leather of his jacket, and he felt the tension in Nicky’s muscles begin to dissipate as he gentled him. Nicky exhaled and dropped his head onto Joe’s shoulder on a sigh.

“How did you find out?” he finally asked.

“I overheard them talking.”

“And Quynh did not seem bothered by it?”

“Not at all.”

Nicky sighed. “Well that is good I suppose. I wonder if she has told Andy.”

Joe’s hands continued their soft sliding over Nicky’s back, humming as he felt the muscles shifting underneath. He was far too worried about this; there was a pretty significant silver lining here, as far as Joe was concerned. “Look on the bright side, Nicky. Their knowing means I get to do this in front of people now, so I’m perfectly content with this turn of events.” He felt rather than heard Nicky’s soft exhalation of laughter. It was still mixed with irritation, but clearly less than before. Joe smiled, happy to have helped make it bleed away. “Just, for the record,” he continued.

“It has been noted on the record,” Nicky murmured. His hands finally wrapped around Joe in turn and they simply held each other for a long moment. “This _is_ nice,” he said begrudgingly.

“It is, isn’t it?” Joe turned and dropped a kiss against Nicky’s soft hair. _So nice_ , he thought. “Hey Nicky?”

“Yes?”

“Want to hold hands when we walk back over?”

There was a long pause, and then Nicky nodded against Joe’s shoulder. He felt Nicky’s soft smile through the suede of his jacket. “Yes.” His words were muffled. 

Joe grinned. “Good.”

* * *

That morning, as the sun rose and he brushed his teeth before getting in bed, thinking about how much he disliked night shoots and how weird they were, and wondering what he should do with Nile when she came to visit him in Rome in two weeks, a text pinged in from his mother. 

_Yusuf Tariq Khalid al-Kaysani, if I don’t hear from you in the next hour I will fly to Italy and track you down myself, don’t think I won’t._

He sighed and spat his toothpaste into the sink. He’d completely forgotten that she’d called and texted yesterday. His phone dinged again, another text from his mother, this time with a gif of an angry looking little white girl crushing what appeared to be a beer can. He laughed, and thought, _Oh God, who taught her about gifs?_

He called her.

“Yusuf! The gif worked!” she said by way of hello.

Joe chuckled. “It wasn’t the gif, Mom, it was the threat of a surprise visit.”

“Yusuf, I am hurt. What kind of a thing is that to say to your poor mother? What if I dropped dead of a heart attack right now? You’d feel terrible.”

Joe laughed again and wandered into his tiny little living room, such as it was, and sat heavily against the built in banquette. “Mom, you’re as likely to drop dead of a heart attack as I am.” It was true – she’d become something of a fitness fanatic as she’d gotten older, had just completed her 500 hour certification to teach yoga. She laughed too, and he thought he heard the sound of the fridge door closing. “Are you at home?”

“I am. About to meet the girls for yoga, and then brunch. Terribly American, am I not?”

“Terribly. Is Dad home?”

“He isn’t. Just ran out to Home Depot to get…” she paused, obviously trying to remember what he was going to get, “something. Wood, maybe? A drill? I do not know. Something manly.” He could practically see her waving her hand in dismissal. “I’ll tell him that you called.” Joe had just enough time to think, _why do I always forget that Mom is funny?_ before she continued. _“_ Tell me how you’ve been, my darling boy. Kitty – you remember her, Adam’s mother? – just became a grandmother for the third time. She will be at brunch. Since I do not have grandchildren to tell them about, I must gloat over the fact that you are a future Oscar winner.”

“ _Mom,_ ” he groaned, the one-two punch of “no grandchildren” and “future prospects” too much to take when he was this tired.

“What? Those are your options, Yusuf, grandchildren or an Oscar.”

“Both seem unlikely.”

“You haven’t met a nice Italian girl?” 

_No, ma, but I met a nice Italian_ boy _. He can play the guitar and make pasta from scratch and he makes me feel about forty percent calmer. He also sucks cock like a champ. Can’t wait for you to meet him!_ “I haven’t,” was what he said.

She tutted. “That is too bad.”

Joe made a non-committal noise.

“Honestly, at this point I just want you to be happy, Joe.” _You sure about that?_ he thought mutinously. “Thirty – six years old and no significant relationships. It makes me wonder where your father and I went wrong.”

Joe put her on speaker and then dropped his head to his hands on the table in front of him. He sighed. “Mom, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just haven’t met the right person.”

“Fine, fine. Tell me about the movie then. How’s filming going?”

“It’s going well.” 

He flicked the curtains on the windows open and watched people moving around in the rising dawn, and told her everything he could about his time in Italy so far without once mentioning Nicky or the fact that the film was a gay erotic drama. Frankly, he was kind of impressed (and somewhat worried) at how easily he was able to lie but still tell the truth. They’d have to find out eventually, but…not yet.

Thirty minutes later, as a headache began to threaten with a deep throb behind his eyes, he glanced at the clock on the stove and realized he hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours. He yawned loudly. “Listen, Mom, we’ve been doing night shoots, and I was actually just about to get in bed when I called you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I haven’t slept for like twenty three hours.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Go – go to bed. Call us soon though, your father misses you too you know.”

“I know, I know.”

“Good. Well, I’ll let you go then. I love you, Yusuf.”

“Thanks Mom. I love you too. Tell Dad the same.”

They hung up and he crawled into bed. _Only three more night shoots and then back to Rome_ , he told himself. _Only three more_. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

“Joe.”

The world behind Joe’s eyes was all light blue and green, and he peeked out from sleep-heavy lids to see the man from his dreams leaning over him. He was fully dressed and smiling, his eyes crinkling slightly when he saw Joe come to consciousness. God, he looked good.

“Morning,” Joe mumbled, fumbling his hands out from underneath the sheets to grab at him. One hand landed on the forearm next to his head and the other against his belt. He pulled.

Nicky laughed softly but did not move. “It’s evening, Joe. Time to get up.”

“No, Nicky, no. Shhh.” He pulled again, harder this time, and Nicky lost his balance enough for Joe to pull him into bed. Victory. He curled his body around Nicky’s from behind and buried his face against his neck. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled. “Don’t make me go into the cold. My people are of the desert, I’m not meant for this shit.”

Nicky laughed at that, but settled against Joe’s chest. “I will give you three minutes. You missed your call time.”

Joe pulled away, sitting up a little to try and wake himself up. “Fuck. I forgot to set an alarm. I’m sorry Nicky.”

“It’s fine. Three minutes will not kill us.” Nicky twisted around to face him and pulled Joe back down into an embrace. He nuzzled into Joe’s neck. Joe _hmmed_ happily at the movement.

“Well, if the executive producer says it’s okay, who am I to say it’s not.”

“That is correct. I am everyone’s boss, so they must listen to what I say.”

“Isn’t that a little unethical?” Joe said with a smile.

“Hm. I was going to say immoral. But, unethical works too.”

“ _Immoral_? Jesus. Remind me never to do something you disapprove of.”

Nicky smiled one of his smaller, tighter smiles – the same one that had made Joe realize that he was handsome on the first day they met, the one that had made him think that he was simply shy and cute and quiet – from before he’d gotten to know his dry wit and ruthless competence and utter professionalism. Not to mention all of his fun little kinks. “You know, the first day that I met you, and I saw _that_ smile, it became a goal to make you laugh.”

“Oh, yes?” He raised an eyebrow, looking distinctly pleased at Joe’s admission.

“Yes.” Joe met his eyes.

“Well, you have hit that goal many times over, Joseph Al-Kaysani. What’s next?” 

_To get you to fall in love with me_ , he thought, as Nicky moved in and began kissing his neck. Joe shut his eyes and let the soft stroke of his tongue lull him for a few breaths.

 _To fall in love with him_. It was something that he had begun to worry over, as their time together drew inexorably to a close, made especially urgent after his conversation with his mother: what was the end game here? In a few weeks, he’d be thousands of miles away from Nicolo di Genova, and sure, he’d see him again for promos and festivals if the movie were well received, but this affair – would it just become a memory? A perfect, fleeting moment? And was their lack of time _why_ he’d become so attached? The frankly mind-blowing sex? Or was it just due to his usual pattern of moving too fast? Because right now… right now it was perfect, _everything_ was perfect, and he wanted to believe that somewhere in the mess of feelings that they had for one another – in their complicated dynamics of lust and friendship and power - was something as miraculous as love. _Actual_ love, not the affectionate lust he’d confused for love in the past. And if it was love, how could he be quiet about it? With Nicky – for Nicky – he didn’t want to be, and that scared the shit out of him. 

He imagined the look on his parent’s faces; Tariq and Noor Al-Kaysani’s further disappointment in their only son’s ‘choices.’ But his mother, he knew, would be delighted with Nicky, just as Joe was. He wished they could meet.

Nicky pulled away from his neck. He’d frozen up, he realized.

“Joe? Are you all right?”

He smiled at him and said, “You know, my real name is Yusuf? Like, that’s what’s on my birth certificate.”

“Is it?” His gaze darted all over Joe’s face. “Do you prefer it?”

“No. Only my parents call me Yusuf, and only occasionally, anymore. Half the time it means they’re pissed off at me.” He squeezed him tighter. “I just…felt like letting you know.”

“Well. Thank you for telling me. I will try to only call you Yusuf when I am angry.” Joe smiled and they kissed slowly, Nicky running his hands up and down Joe’s arms, warming him against the cool evening air. “Time’s up, Joe,” he whispered against his lips. “It has been at least three minutes, by my estimation.”

“Fine, fine,” Joe grumbled, pulling away reluctantly. “You’re lucky you’re good-looking you know.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Nicky responded with a quick grin, and Joe laughed, surprised, and thought, _God, I fucking love you._

Maybe what he felt for Nicky didn’t have to make sense, he thought, as they finally rolled out of bed. Maybe there didn’t have to be a reason. Maybe he just loved him, and that was all he needed to know. Maybe.


	17. The Artist Formerly Known as Nicolo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sincere thank you again to everyone who left kind comments. I hope you enjoy!

“Vaffanculo a chi t’è morto,” Geno spat out, baring his teeth at the little man who stood his ground in front of him. Marco stood in his way – in his and Dante’s way - and he was a fucking dead man for it. Marco – who did not stand for _any shit_ , and hadn’t, for twenty years – reached out to remind him who was boss with a slap against his face, like he, Geno, was an out of control dog, and Marco held the rolled up newspaper.

But just before the slap hit his face, he flinched.

 _Shit_ , Nico thought. _Not again._

“ _Cut_ ,” Quynh called out. The handful of crew still left for the evening let out a collective sigh. “Nico!” she shouted, the rest unsaid. He understood.

“ _I know_ , I know,” he shouted back. “I know.” She was exasperated, which made sense – they’d had to do this…he counted. Five times. This was just the beginning; the slap came before minutes of uninterrupted - and, most importantly _uncut -_ conversation between Geno and Marco. And every time, Nico had flinched before the blow. It was Christmas Eve, people had families and lives to get to; people wanted to go home. Not to mention once this scene was wrapped they’d have two entire glorious days off before they resumed filming on the 27th. Some people – including Nico – hadn’t had a day off in weeks.

“I’m sorry, Giovanni, you’re going to have to hit me once more,” he sighed to his scene partner, who played Marco.

Giovanni shot him a sly grin. “It’s no problem, Nicolo. But if we stay here much longer, my wife may offer to fill in for me.” 

Nico laughed. “Terrifying. Heaven save me from an angry Italian wife, eh?”

“American, actually. Far more terrifying.” Giovanni smiled again, his eyebrows lowering into something like a conspiratorial smirk. “But you know something of that, yes?”

Nico’s gaze shifted to Joe, who was sitting with his chin propped up on his hand behind Quynh. He had on a gigantic down jacket that covered him from head to toe even though it hovered around ten degrees in the large warehouse. His eyes were closed, and he looked like he was asleep. _Right…terrifying,_ he thought ironically.

But then his gaze went a little unfocused – in his mind, Joe was braced over him, his strong hand wrapped around Nico’s cock. He was jerking at him, whispering into his ear that he was a _greedy, disobedient slut_ , and his only choice was to admit to it. Fuck, he could almost hear the smack of Joe’s hand on his ass, his hand sliding into his hair and yanking his head back, the feeling of Joe’s cock catching on his rim before sliding away, _God_ , he still hadn’t had him like that, not like that –

“Nico! Hello! We’re rolling.”

Nico snapped out of his daydream and focused on Quynh. Her eyebrows were up to her hairline. Behind her, he saw Joe, eyes now open. He was smirking. _Jesus._ “Sorry! Sorry.”

He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, thinking Geno thoughts. He looked down at the little insignificant man in front of him once again. “Vaffanculo a chi t’è morto,” Geno said, for the sixth time. This time he didn’t flinch, when the slap came.

* * *

“Nico, can we talk?”

Nico froze in the middle of shrugging on his jacket. It was Andy, and it was her _we need to talk_ voice, tight and clipped. _She’s going to confront you about Joe,_ his mind sent up. _Quynh must have finally told her._ Joe looked at him questioningly from where he was waiting for him at the stage door, his jacket folded over his arm. They were just about to go back to his place for dinner and… well. 

“Give me a few minutes?” he asked him. 

“Of course,” Joe said, crossing his legs and settling against the wall, apparently content to wait.

Nico shed his jacket and laid it over a chair as he strode over to where Andy waited for him at the heavy open door leading to their ad hoc production office. She stood with her arms crossed and, as he approached, she swept her arm into the room and bowed at the waist ever-so-slightly, as if to say, mockingly, _after you_. Nothing showed on her face; her expression carefully blank.

 _Christ she can be intimidating when she puts her mind to it_ , Nico thought, as he entered the relatively bare room. What was it Joe had said? _She looks like a mercenary._ Right now, he would believe it. He turned towards his friend as the door shut, feeling rather like he was in front of the firing squad.

Her arms were again crossed over her chest, and she got right to it. “So. Nicky. When were you planning on letting me know about you and Joe?”

Nico sighed and stuffed his hands in his front pockets. So, he’d been right, and now he was well and truly cornered. “Did Quynh tell you?”

She uncrossed her arms and leaned against one of the folding tables that acted as a desk and drummed her fingers against the hollow plastic. “No. No, Quynh didn’t tell me. You know who did?”

 _Obviously not_ , he thought. “No.”

“Matteo.”

“Who?”

“Exactly.” The muscles in her arm tensed briefly, but that was her only sign of irritation. She sighed. “He’s a gaffer. Nice guy, actually. Mentioned that you two made a good couple.” She met his gaze, and her eyes were _sad_. “Why didn’t you tell me, Nicky?”

 _Because I knew you’d tell me what I’ve been trying to ignore. He’s leaving, he’s closeted, he’ll break my heart._ What he said was, “I’m sorry Andy, I should have.”

“I just…” She sighed and looked up at the ceiling, crossing her arms again before looking back at him. “You’re an adult; you can make your own decisions. Quynh seems to think it’s only going to make the film _better,_ _and_ I really like Joe, you know? I like him. He’s kind, and funny, and even I can tell that he’s hot. I get it. But, Nicky…” Nico said nothing. She was his best friend, the closest thing he’d ever had to a sibling. He knew what was coming. “How is he different from Andrei?”

Nico’s hands tensed in his pockets; his only reaction. No one except for Andy would have noticed. “He’s not like Andrei,” he said tightly.

“Isn’t he? Good looking, charming, _closeted._ ” She looked at him, and Nico understood from her expression that she was pleading with him to realize it too.

“He’s not… he isn’t entirely closeted.”

“No? So his parents know about you two? His fans? His agent?”

“His agent – yes. They’re good friends. And from what he’s told me, he’ll be coming out to his parents soon.” A lie – he’d only really ever said he might be forced to, due to the film.

Andy completely ignored his protestation. “Have you forgotten what it was like? Because I haven’t. You were _fucked up_ , Nicky. I don’t want to ever see you like that again. It broke my heart.”

Nico hardly knew what to say. She was right, he knew that she was right – and it wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought of besides, but admitting to it felt impossible, because what would it change? Nothing. He was still going to walk out of this room and straight into Joe’s arms, and even if he _knew_ that Joe would break his heart, he wouldn’t be able to stay away. It was intoxicating, what they had, both in and out of bed, and like an addict, he found he had zero interest in saying no.

“I appreciate your concern, Andy, I do, but Joe is nothing like Andrei. He’s…” _Perfect. He’s perfect._ She wouldn’t want to hear that, but he legitimately couldn’t think of another word that applied, so he said nothing more.

But Andy apparently understood his silence well enough. Her eyes widened slightly and her mouth dropped into an O of surprise. “Are you _in love_ with him?”

“No!” Nico began to protest half-heartedly, but Andy had already put her hands over her face. When she took them away, Nico saw some complicated mix of emotions he couldn’t quite read. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes – not entirely.

“Oh, _Nicky_.” She sighed long and loud. “You love him?” The question made her sound like she was thousands of years old.

Nico didn’t say anything still – they were too complicated to explain, his feelings. He felt love - he thought he did - but they’d only truly known each other for two months, and they were _playing_ star-crossed lovers, which could always become confusing, and he’d gotten too thoroughly wasted on their sex and the impossibility of everything besides.

His feelings couldn’t be trusted, he knew that. Andy would know it too.

The silence stretched out, heavy with his thoughts and her own. He felt sure that she was thinking back to those horrible months after Andrei had left him. The nights spent on her sofa watching old movies, drinking wine straight from the bottle and eating vats of gelato; like some maudlin self-parody. The night of Andrei’s wedding – which had been breathlessly reported on in the fucking news – he’d sobbed in her arms until there weren’t any more tears left. 

But Joe… Joe wasn’t like Andrei.

She sighed again heavily, but surprised him with her next words. “Okay. I know when I’m beat.” She looked up at him through thick dark eyelashes. “It’s been a long time since you’ve shown any interest in someone Nico. Like I said, he’s a nice guy.” She smiled, but it was tight.

“He really is,” Nico agreed. His responding smile was small; secretive.

She pushed off of the table and wrapped him in a hug, one arm around his shoulders, the other under his arm. He returned it, holding her in the same way. “I’ll kill him if he hurts you,” she muttered into his ear, and Nico smiled, closing his eyes against the unexpected surge of gratitude and love that flowed through him. No matter what happened, he would have Andy.

She briefly cupped the back of his neck as she pulled away, smiling at him before she punched him in the shoulder.

He hissed and rubbed at the spot. “Ouch, Andy, what the fuck?”

She stuck her finger in his face. “That’s for not telling me, Nico. No more secrets. Get me?”

“Jesus, yes.”

“All right.” She smiled at him again and took his arm, tugging him towards the door. “Come on then. I have to go tell Joe I’ll kill him if he hurts you, too.” 

* * *

It was a thrill – silly, but nonetheless true – to leave that evening with Joe, to say goodbye to everyone with their hands linked, to ask the driver to drop both himself and Joe off at his place that evening. 

The ride home was quiet, just the tinny sound of Christmas music playing on the radio. Nico looked to Joe, impossibly handsome in the dark of the van, shafts of yellow light from passing cars and streetlights illuminating his three-quarter profile every few seconds. Joe smiled when he noticed the scrutiny and reached for Nico’s hand, which lay palm down between them. Nico turned over his hand and linked their fingers together, studying their hands and Joe’s various rings and his long fingers topped with blunt nails before meeting his gaze squarely. Joe’s eyes were inky black pools in the dark; the light reflected their depth. 

“This has been quite a day. How shall we end it, do you think?” Nico whispered. He hoped the driver was not fluent in English.

Joe smiled and raised their interlocked hands to his mouth, lightly kissing each of Nico’s fingers. The touch was nothing, really, but it set his body buzzing with gentle arousal. That arousal sharpened and his breath came heavier as Joe’s gaze turned sinister. He began to tongue along the tip of Nico’s index finger, his eyes never leaving Nico’s as he sucked it further into his mouth and bit _hard._ Nico’s hips jerked through no control of his own and he had to smother a groan, shocked at his reaction to the small touch.

Joe smiled again, seemingly content with the response, and removed Nico’s finger from his mouth. He dropped their connected hands back to the seat between them and turned his gaze back to the window, now apparently more interested in Rome as it flew by. Nico turned his face towards his own window, a smile playing about his lips. _He’s nothing like Andrei_ , he told himself. _Nothing like him._

* * *

Nico felt Joe’s eyes on him as they walked up the wide marble stairs that led to his flat. He looked over his shoulder at Joe trailing a few stairs behind and noted with no small amount of satisfaction that his gaze was locked onto his ass.

“Do you see something you like?” he asked with a laugh. The question echoed.

Joe’s eyes snapped up to his and he grinned, caught. “I do.”

They reached his landing and Nico unlocked the door to let them in. Joe shrugged off his coat and put it on the coat rack without asking, and that simple gesture – so mundane and domestic – set Nico’s heart beating just a bit faster.

“Go shower,” Joe said casually over his shoulder. “Once the water’s off you’ll have fifteen minutes before I join you.” His heart beat faster, but it had nothing whatsoever to do with domesticity, now. “I’d like you naked and kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed when I walk in.” 

_Yes, sir_.

Nico turned to do as he’d been told when he felt Joe’s hand in his own, tugging him back. He swayed into him and their mouths came together, Joe’s soft lips both firm and sensual as his tongue stroked Nico’s. A faint sigh was breathed into Nico’s mouth before Joe broke away with a low groan. “I haven’t kissed you for eleven hours,” Joe whispered against his lips, and Nico couldn’t have stopped the smile that blossomed on his mouth if he’d tried. “All right. Go on,” he continued, pushing him towards the shower and playfully swatting his ass as he left. A pale imitation of what he hoped was to come.

* * *

He walked naked into his bedroom and knelt at the foot of the bed, the rug spread underneath doing very little to cushion his knees, which he was glad for. The mattress was at just the right height for him to lean into a position of supplication, and of course – how could it not? – it brought him back to his youth, the hours and hours spent kneeling in church, praying to God because he’d been told to.

A memory rose; being perhaps fifteen years old, skinny and big-nosed and _painfully_ awkward, kneeling to pray in the row behind a boy he’d had a crush on. Throughout mass – kneeling and standing, kneeling and standing, hours and hours of it – his eyes hadn’t strayed from that boy’s ass. He’d become – in the way of fifteen year old boys everywhere – _unbearably_ turned on, and when he’d placed a shaking hand on his jeans to adjust the angle of his cock against the hard material and briefly imagined the boy tying him up, he’d come without even so much as touching himself. Shame – profound and arousing _–_ had washed over him, and that - as they say – was that. (He later found himself thanking God perhaps the most fervently he ever had – or has to this day – for the fact that he hadn’t come much, and that he had been able to hide the evidence with baggy jeans and an untucked shirt. Considering his age, he thought, God himself must have been looking out for him that day.)

Time ticked by as he waited, torturously slow. He heard water running through his building’s ancient pipes, doors opening and closing; the soft sounds of another person in his space. Finally, the sound of the pocket doors that led into his room sliding open and closed.

Joe hummed and said “So obedient,” and then nothing more. Silence fell, heavy and tense.

 _What are you going to do to me? Tell me, Joe._ Nico could feel his scrutiny, his gaze traveling slowly along his skin as arousing as a fingertip dragging along his skin. His cock responded, swelling with his attention alone.

“So eager,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

Nico turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Joe stood leaning against the wall with a towel wrapped around his waist. When Nico’s eyes raked greedily over his body, he dropped it. Nico bit his bottom lip at the sight.

“I want to tie you. Do you have something I can use?”

Nico immediately thought of the box under his bed and he flushed hot with embarrassment and arousal. _He’s nothing like Andrei_ , he reminded himself. “I – yes, I do. Under the bed. It is a white box.” He watched Joe slink over to the bed and then kneel down. He pulled a large-ish white box from beneath and opened the lid.

“Is this like your stash?” he asked, grinning. 

“I suppose.”

He pawed through its contents. “Damn, Nicky, I don’t think we’re going to have time to use all of this stuff.” He smiled at him and Nicky smiled back, still a bit embarrassed. 

“You’ll have to come back to visit me then,” Nicky said without really thinking, and Joe froze momentarily.

“I guess I will,” he responded, with a smile Nicky hadn’t really seen from Joe before – small and secretive. Normally Joe’s emotions were gloriously obvious. This one wasn’t. 

He looked back down to the box and pulled out some leather cuffs. “Perfect.” He shut the box and set it on the ground, walking back over to stand behind where Nico knelt. He felt a hand run through his hair and he leaned into the touch. “You’ve been so good, Nicky. So fearless and brave.” His blunt nails scratched along Nico’s scalp and he swallowed, every nerve crackling with anticipation. “I think you deserve a reward.” He removed his hand. “Hands behind your back.”

His mind went blank as his blood surged downwards. _A reward._ Nico put his wrists at the small of his back and Joe’s agile fingers quickly wrapped and snapped everything in place. He put his hand between Nico’s shoulder blades and pushed slightly, a comforting pressure that made Nico sigh. “Good?”

Nico flexed his fingers. “Yes.”

“Good.” He clamped a hand on his neck and squeezed hard, pushing him further down against the mattress. “Now _, stay_ ,” he breathed.

The old wooden floors groaned beneath Joe’s feet as he padded back and forth behind him, back and forth. “Spread your knees.” Nico obediently adjusted his stance on the floor. “Very nice,” he said. He heard the sound of a zipper and then a few more noises he couldn’t quite place. Silence grew and stretched in the room, and the urge to know what Joe was doing became overwhelming. He stole a glance over his shoulder. Joe was crouching, with a sketchpad balanced on a thigh and a pencil flying over the paper. His gaze was intent.

“Are you…drawing me?” he asked.

“I am. You look so good like this, Nicky. Bent over for me, helpless. I want to remember it.”

God, is that what he looked like? Bent over, begging for it, waiting for Joe to deign to touch him? Shame and arousal surged downward, a double edged sword that cut so deep and sharp it _hurt_. A bead of come dripped out of his cock and hit the ground. 

“Shit, Nicky,” Joe breathed. “I’ve barely touched you.”

“I’m aware,” Nico said wryly.

Joe dropped his sketchpad to the ground and walked over to him, taking his time. “Poor thing,” he muttered. He felt Joe kneel and settle against his legs. His hands slid down Nico’s back, cresting over his ass and down his thighs. “You really are helpless, aren’t you?”

He replied with a shallow gasp and closed his eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to admit to how fucking hot your desperation gets me,” he muttered. Nico shuddered at the words. He’d been half-hard before, but with that whispered admission Joe had him so ready it hurt.

He felt Joe’s lips on his ass, biting and sucking on the sensitive skin. “I can pretend to be disgusted,” he said between licks, “but the truth is that it’s so fucking hot I can hardly stand it.” 

He began to kiss and lick the rim around his ass, groaning into him like he was in pain. He dipped low and tongued the skin beneath his hole, mouthed at his balls, ran the edge of his finger between his cheeks, his fingers digging into his hip. “And you’re all mine,” he murmured. “All mine.”

Joe groaned and Nico’s whole world became Joe’s tongue and fingers at his entrance, the sounds he made as he licked and opened him up. Everything became cloudy with arousal, hot and dense.

He felt a lubed fingertip enter him, _finally_ , lighting up his nerves, making his back arch. He moaned, feeling crazed already.

“ _Yes_ , Nicky,” Joe hissed, as he slid another finger in, massaging his walls, stretching him out. “I want to see you. Turn your head.” Nico moved his head so he could see Joe from the corner of his eye and Joe could see his profile. His eyes squeezed shut when a third finger entered him. 

Joe’s long fingers easily found his prostate, rubbing as Nico panted through it. Then, emptiness.

“Joe,” he moaned.

“Come with me.” Joe tugged at his bound hands. When Nico didn’t immediately move, he pulled harder, stretching his shoulders uncomfortably, spreading a glorious ache. “That’s not a request.”

 _Fuck._ He stood and let himself be pushed over to the antique floor length mirror next to one of the windows. Joe stopped him about a meter from it and then plastered his front to Nico’s back, his hard cock against his ass, one hand still grasping his bound hands and the other sliding into his hair. He fisted the strands hard, pinning his head in place, and Nico watched his reflection hiss in pain. _Fucking Christ, yes_.

“See yourself, Nicolo di Genova?” 

He licked his lips and looked at himself. His thighs, always a little thicker than he liked, the thin layer of fat over his abs, nothing like Joe’s body, which was lean and hard all over. “Yes.”

“Keep your eyes open,” he commanded, before putting his mouth to Nico’s shoulder and biting down hard. Nico moaned and fought the urge to close his eyes. “Want to know what I see?” Joe mouthed against him, raising his gaze to catch Nico’s in the mirror.

 _Desperately,_ he thought. “Yes,” he sighed.

“A horny little slut who needs to be fucked.”

“ _Fuck,_ Joe.” He felt Joe’s smile against his shoulder and saw Joe’s eyes crinkling at the corners.

“A handsome, smart, funny, horny little slut who needs to be fucked,” he mouthed against his skin, his façade momentarily slipping. Lust surged hot through him, but not from degradation or pain, or any of the other usual suspects - it was the indulgence. Joe liked what they did, yes, but he’d entered this territory for Nico. For so long he’d been alone in his fantasies, but now someone had joined him. Someone who made him feel more than he ever had, both in and out of bed. It was a gift.

He caught Joe’s gaze again, in the mirror. _Fall in love with me,_ he thought.

Joe gently bit his shoulder. “Get on your knees,” he whispered.

Nico kneeled, still facing the mirror, and watched as Joe undid the cuffs behind him. “Hands in front,” he said. It was a matter of moments before he was cuffed again. “Still good?” Joe asked, holding his gaze. Whatever was in Nico’s face – probably far too much – made Joe drop his forehead to Nico’s with a sigh. His palm rested on Nico’s jaw and drew his mouth up to Joe’s. Nico breathed into the kiss, his lips telling Joe what he felt with no words at all.

“Still good,” Nico murmured. 

Joe drew away and took a deep breath. “On all fours.”

Nico settled onto his elbows and watched Joe’s face in the mirror, his eyes cast down to his ass, his cock teasing his rim. He watched as Joe reached for the condom next to his knee and rolled it over his erection, then popped the lid on the lube and poured a generous amount onto his hole. He smiled, as if thinking of something funny, and it was odd enough that Nico asked, “What?”

“I was just thinking – Gita telling you to use enough lube for the first sex scene because teenage boys across the world will be jerking themselves to this.”

Nico huffed out a laugh. “It is very strange to think about.”

“Why?” Joe asked, suddenly serious again. His hands roamed across Nico’s back and ass before dipping both thumbs into his entrance. He felt himself being spread open and dropped his mouth open on a moan. “Look at us,” Joe said. Nico watched their reflection in the mirror, Joe’s muscled arms, his contracting stomach and tight chest. His own broad shoulders and expression of pained lust. “We look fucking good together,” Joe continued. Two fingers entered him again and he pushed back against the invasion.

 _We look fucking good together._ Nico thought of holding his hand around the crew, kissing him in a restaurant, laying claim to him with the little touches in public that indicated he was _his_ , with the eyes of the world on them. Joe would come out, he knew it in his bones. He’d come out and stay in Rome and they’d fly his parents over for a trip and have a winter wedding because that was when they’d met…

 _Dangerous wishes_ , _Nicky. Dangerous, overly romantic wishes._ Nothing was certain, except that Joe would be leaving in a week.

But there was one more certainty. In the mirror there was a man living out his most fevered fantasies. He’d been handcuffed and spanked and shamed and dominated, and that man was _him_. His shaking arms and arching back, his knees digging into the wood of the floor, his green eyes catching the dark gaze of the powerful man behind him. _So fuck him like those are the only two certainties._

He pushed back into Joe’s fingers. “We do look good together. You should show me what it looks like when you fuck me.”

Joe’s eyes snapped to his in the reflection of the mirror. “Bossy. I think you should beg me.” 

_Yes._ “Please, Joe. Fuck me.”

He added a third finger and pulled him roughly back by the hip. “I am.”

“Joe,” he moaned. _More. Give me more._

“You can do better than that, Nicolo.” His words dripped with disdain and it was so close to perfect.

“Fuck me, Joe.” 

The first smack against his ass rang out in the room. Nicky hissed. “Specifics,” he said, as the second strike landed. Harder. _Better_.

“Fuck me with your cock.” 

The third blow landed in the same spot, the pain radiating out, sinking in. “Say please.”

“Please!” he sobbed. “Please, Joe, please fuck me with your cock.” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” Joe said smugly. Nico felt the tip of his cock against his rim before he began to push in, the penetration slow and explicit. He watched Joe’s reflected expression, watched as his mouth dropped open on a stuttering moan and his broad chest rose and fell, heavy and steady and strong.

“More,” Nico demanded, watching as all of the muscles in Joe’s body tightened. He eased in another couple of inches.

“Fuck, Nicky, you feel…” He trailed off as he eased back out and then pushed back in, over and over until he was filled. 

Having Joe inside of him, Joe’s hands clutching at his hips, Joe’s strong body reflecting above his in the mirror…it was… “Perfect,” Nico whispered. He watched as Joe nodded in agreement, his eyes closed and his eyebrows pinched together. _Fuck. It’s perfect._

“Yeah. Perfect.” His eyes opened slowly, as if he were waking up from a dream. His eyes darted all over Nico’s reflected face like he was thinking something through before he pulled out entirely, holding onto the base of the condom to keep it from pulling off. He sat facing Nico and pulled him onto his lap – a bit awkwardly; Nico’s hands were still bound. “Put me back in,” he whispered.

Nico did as commanded, dropping his hands down to Joe’s cock to lower himself on, groaning as he sank down, feeling gently, lovingly, terrifyingly exposed. Joe’s eyes never left his face.

His bound hands looped around Joe’s shoulders and up into his hair. “I love your hair,” Nico said, helpless against the gentle truth.

“Yeah?” They moved together slowly, his cock hitting him in just the right spot with merciful pressure.

“But I miss the curls.”

“I’ll grow them back,” Joe said with a soft smile. He tilted his head up, the gesture simple enough to understand and a request simple enough to grant. Nico curled down and met his lips, opening his mouth to take Joe’s tongue in the same easy way he took his cock.

Joe began to lean forward and Nico held on tight to keep Joe inside, but he slipped out regardless. Nico felt immediately and irrationally empty. “Joe,” he sighed.

“I know,” Joe responded as he laid Nicky on his back. He lifted one of Nicky’s legs over his shoulder and gripped himself at the base to slide back inside. _Back home_ , Nicky thought breathlessly. Joe kissed and bit at Nicky’s calf, rocking in and out at a gentle pace, the constant pressure against his prostate causing a new kind of heat to blossom under his skin.

“Touch yourself,” Joe muttered. Nicky obeyed, bringing his cuffed hands down to take himself in hand, using his leaking come to ease the way. “I love how wet you get,” Joe said as he watched. “The way you _leak_.” He closed his eyes and thrust his hips forward, bottoming out and groaning.

Nico studied Joe’s face above him as he touched himself, memorizing the arch of his dark eyebrows, his slightly crooked nose, his plush lips that brought him so much joy and laughter and pleasure.

 _Fall in love with me_.

He brought his bound hands up to Joe’s face and cradled his jaw. Joe turned and pressed a kiss to his palm before sitting back on his haunches and undoing the cuffs. “I want your hands on me,” he said by way of explanation, and Nicky was only too happy to oblige, one hand flying to grasp Joe’s forearm when he sank back in and the other scoring lines down Joe’s back. The intrusion was intense – a little painful – perfect.

_Fall in love with me._

Joe lifted Nicky’s leg, letting the back of his knee rest against the crook of his elbow, fucking him deep. He buried his face against Nicky’s shoulder, his breathing gone heavy and erratic. “God, I love this. Love being inside of you.”

“Yeah?”

Joe nodded against his neck. Nicky slid a hand into Joe’s hair and fisted it, yanking his head up and his mouth against his own. “Fuck me harder then.”

Joe widened his knees so he could thrust into him deeper, and Nicky cried out, feeling what little control he had slipping away. His cock throbbed between them, little spurts of come flowing from him with every pass of Joe’s dick over his prostate.

“That better?” Joe gasped. “I should’ve known you’d want it harder. Moan for me, Nicky.” He sounded frantic, all of the self-possession from earlier gone.

Nicky obeyed, offering up a sound from deep in his chest, letting him hear everything he was making him feel.

“ _Fuck_.” Joe rolled them over so Nicky was on top. “Yeah,” Joe breathed. “Fuck me. Use me.” One hand smacked Nicky’s ass so hard he jolted forward. “Harder.” He smacked him again. “Come on.” His hands went to Nicky’s neck, a gentle touch that Nicky leaned into, choking himself. “Yes, God, _fuck,_ Nicky you’re so fucking hot. Such a dirty little slut. You’d let me do anything to you, huh?”

Nicky nodded and let out a sound he hardly recognized, lust and a lack of air twisting his vocal chords beyond all recognition.

“Yes, Joe.”

“What do you want?” One hand went to his hair and pulled, pinning his head in place as he fucked up into him. The pleasure was overwhelming, he felt it gathering in his core, the heat spreading out and burning him alive. “What do you want?” Joe growled. “Huh?”

“Fall in love with me,” he muttered, inevitably, and when Joe’s dark eyes met his Nicky had no choice but to surrender to it. It felt like slow-motion, the way the pleasure took him, blossoming out and wrapping itself around every nerve in his body. Utterly overwhelming. Shaking, moaning and shuddering with it, dying from it, he came, emptying himself into Joe’s waiting palm.

“I will,” Joe sighed, and when Nicky’s eyes opened he found Joe’s, staring up at him still with undisguised wonder.

Another, odder sensation came then, from deep in his belly, a pang of release that hit him like lightning and forced a grunt from his chest, ugly and pained. He came down from it, trembling, and collapsed onto Joe’s chest. Joe’s arms wrapped around Nicky, holding him close, running his hands up and down his back and arms and into his hair. He held his head and brought it to his for a kiss, but Nicky found himself barely cognizant enough to even do that properly. 

“Let’s get you into bed,” Joe muttered, and Nicky nodded weakly. Joe held the base of the condom as Nicky pulled himself off. He stumbled over to the mattress and collapsed onto it, vaguely registering that Joe pulled a blanket over his legs and told him that he would be right back.

Had he come…twice? Was that possible? And had he told Joe to fall in love with him? Yes. He had done that. He should probably be panicking, but at that moment, he was too blissed out to care.

He felt the mattress dip slightly when Joe came back. He cracked open his eyes and saw that he held a glass of water. “Thank you,” he croaked.

“Thought you might need it,” Joe said wryly. His fingers curled Nicky’s hair around his left ear as he watched him drink. Nicky lifted an inquiring brow as he gulped down the blessed water. _Holy water_ , he thought, stupidly.

“Every time we’re together, I think that it can’t possibly get better.” His fingers rubbed against Nicky’s ear, a soothing back and forth that Nicky couldn’t help but lean into. “But every time it is.” He took the now-empty glass from Nicky and set it on the bedside table. He laid down facing him and tangled their hands together. “Did you mean what you said?” 

_He’s giving you an out,_ Nicky realized, his mind still muddled by the best sex of his life. He could back away from what he’d said, act like it had bubbled out of him in the throes of passion. That was what had happened, of course, but it was also _true_. He was perfect. This was perfect.

_Tell him the truth. That’s always been what he deserves._

“I meant it,” Nicky whispered.

Joe’s eyes darted all over Nicky’s face, and Nicky felt Joe was drinking him in as surely as he’d gulped down that water. Like he was essential.

“Ya amar,” Joe finally said.

“What is that?”

“My moon.” He laid a gentle kiss against Nicky’s lips. “It means ‘my moon.’”


	18. Sex, Truths and Videotape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks go out to Marivan, who is a beautiful angel sent from heaven above for the purposes of beta-ing. Also, she's just a very nice person. 
> 
> Enjoy...

Consciousness came to Joe in fits and starts. He registered Nicky’s nose pressed against the back of his neck, his breathing warm and comforting against his skin. It was still dark, hours yet until the sun would rise. He let himself sink again into his dreams.

_A campfire and a guitar, strong hands pulling him in for a kiss that took his breath away. Verdigris eyes and a Mona Lisa smile pressing to the rim of a wine glass._

He felt a hard cock pressed against his ass. He arched back into it and smiled sleepily.

 _Fall in love with me, he commanded, as his body clenched tight around his cock, his grasping muscles pulling his come out of his body and deep into his own, a part of him that would_ stay. _Ya amar, ya amar, ya amar._

He finally awoke. It was still dark. Chilly. Nicky wasn’t in bed. He saw him standing at the open window, his back towards him. He was naked, and a tendril of smoke drifted above his head.

Joe felt a profound sense of déjà vu - a penetrating feeling of _rightness_ overtaking him. He looked to the foot of the bed, knew he’d find a grey wool blanket there. His rings would be on the bedside table. Nicky would sigh in just a moment.

When he did, Joe thought, _I have to draw this._ He spotted his sketchbook and pencil on the floor about two feet from the bed, so he crept over to it, one eye on Nicky, as silent as he’d ever been in his life, before retreating back to the mattress. He quickly sketched the broad outlines; the dark metal window frame, Nicky’s shoulders, the heavy slabs of his trapezius muscles, deltoids, the curve of his spine down to the slight indentations above his ass, his absolutely perfect posterior, thick ( _with two ‘c’s,_ he thought with a smirk) thighs, one crossed over the other, the backs of his knees and calves and well-proportioned feet.

He thought, _Is this what it’s like? To fall in love with someone? Or is this still infatuation?_

He finished with the whispy trail of smoke above his head and – in a flight of artistic whimsy - added the moon in the upper right hand corner of the window frame. _Ya amar_ , he wrote at the top. His pencil came to a stop.

 _This is what it’s like,_ he thought. Love.

“Have you finished?” Nicky asked on an exhale, blowing out smoke.

Joe laughed softly, closing the notebook and tossing it to the end of the bed. “Shit, I thought I was being sneaky.”

Nicky glanced at him over his shoulder. His lips curled and he raised an eyebrow. “You were not.”

“Ah, well. In any case, yes, I’m done. You may move, my muse.” He lay back against the pillows, made sure the sheet _just_ covered his cock, and crossed his hands behind his head. It was a calculated pose that would highlight the breadth of his chest, the tight bands of muscles around his middle. His body did something to Nicky, he knew – would darken his gaze, infuse it with a hungry luster.

Nicky stubbed out his cigarette and Joe rather smugly noted the exact moment Nicky’s eyes zeroed in on him. Just the look in his eyes made him half hard already, his stiffening cock hidden by the soft sheets. Nicky climbed into bed and curled against Joe, propped his head up on his hand. The other hand stroked along Joe’s front. 

He smiled up at Nicky’s peculiar, captivating face. Sharp cheekbones, curved nose. That mole. The hard lines of his jaw and neck in contrast with the glorious softness of his mustache and long hair tucked behind his ears. He returned the smile and lowered his lips to Joe’s. The kiss was fond and chaste, the kind an old married couple might partake in, the kind that said, _Hello, dear, I love you._

 _Fall in love with me_ , whispered through Joe’s head.

“Do you often make a habit of drawing your conquests?” Nicky asked as he drew away.

“My conquests? No. I just take a picture of their dick and kick them out.” Nicky let out a surprised laugh against Joe’s chest and the sound went straight to his heart.

“You don’t.”

“I do. Quick dick pic, then out onto the pavement they go. I’m quite heartless you know.”

“Lies,” Nicky said. He was grinning, one of those rare wide smiles that showed all of his lovely teeth. “I bet you make them breakfast.”

Joe hummed and grinned back. “Yes. I feed them a banana.”

Nicky’s grin became impossibly larger, and he rolled his eyes. “Is that a joke about your penis?”

“Of course not. Potassium’s very important, Nicky.”

He ignored him. “Aren’t you a professional comedian?”

“I am.”

Nicky hummed. “It is good that you got this job then.”

Joe gasped in mock outrage. “Nicolo! To besmirch my reputation in such a way. Cruel man.” Nicky just smiled in return, his beautiful eyes shining in the moonlight. “I thought that cruelty was supposed to be _my_ job,” he continued. 

Nicky’s eyebrow twitched infinitesimally as he smirked. “I assure you, I can be cruel too.”

“Apparently.” He studied Nicky’s face, the relaxed lines of his neck and shoulders before meeting his eyes squarely. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Why haven’t you ever… asked for this?”

He didn’t clarify further but Nicky seemed to understand regardless. He made him wait for an answer as he apparently turned thoughts over in his head. “I did, once. Andrei.”

“Who didn’t want to be seen with you?” 

“The same.” He sighed and met Joe’s eyes briefly before looking away.

““Well, he was a fucking idiot, for not giving you what you wanted.”

Nicky shook his head. “He is not an idiot for that. Other things, perhaps, but this was understandable. His parents fought when he was a child – violently, you know – and he didn’t want to hurt me.”

“Oh. Well, I feel like a real asshole now.”

“There was no way for you to know. They certainly present as a happy family.”

Joe thought of his own little family. His parents, who ultimately loved him, and definitely loved each other. Of course, they didn’t know about the one big secret, but that was future Joe’s problem.

“How did it end, between you two?”

“Badly.”

“Care to clarify?” Nicky sighed and flopped back against the mattress. Joe followed and curled around him, wrapped his arm around his chest. “You said he slept with someone else, right?”

“He did.” His gaze went to the ceiling, darting about like he was seeing something Joe couldn’t. “But he did not just sleep with someone else. He cheated on me for quite some time. With the same woman he ended up marrying about three months after we ended things, actually.”

Joe squeezed Nicky tighter. “That must have been painful.”

“Yes. I didn’t… I like to think that I am reasonably well-adjusted, but being abandoned…” He smiled ruefully at Joe. “It is easy enough to see how that might be difficult for me.”

“Sure.”

“And his marriage was an event. It was on the news. Football star marries beautiful model – such a cliché. I was a secret from his friends and family, for _years_ , but with Natalia…” Nicky sighed, and the sound was brittle, ice cracking over a frozen lake. Joe frowned. _Are you like Andrei?_ he asked himself. He dismissed it in the next breath. He could never be so heartless. 

“Want me to beat him up for you?” he asked.

Nicky huffed out a laugh. “I don’t. It has been a long time. And besides, you would have to fight Andy for the pleasure.”

Joe sighed dramatically. “Well shit. Andy would win. She put the fear of God into me, yesterday.” _I’ve got my eyes on you Al-Kaysani_ , she’d said, her clear blue eyes staring murder into his own. It had been terrifying.

Nicky smiled genuinely, warmly. “I am sorry about that.”

“No you’re not. Besides, you shouldn’t be. She’s a good friend.”

“She is.”

Nicky laid his head against Joe’s chest and drew his fingers through the hair there. It was soothing, just like everything else Nicky did. 

He’d been in this position before, with exes, other beautiful men who’d laid their heads against his chest to try to find his heartbeat. He’d thought they’d been able to hear it, but now he wondered: _Did your heart ever really beat before you met Nicky?_ It was an overly romantic thought, especially considering how much it still scared him, those thoughts, what he felt. How strongly he felt them.

Would Nicky tire of him? If – when - the newness of his body and their sex faded – would Nicky find anything of interest to keep him? Joe thrived at the beginning; the surfaces; the simple act of getting to know someone he found interesting. But what happened later? What if he blew up his life by coming out to his parents, to the public, and then…nothing? Years from now, alone, no family, no work…

 _Fall in love with me,_ he’d said. Well, too fucking late for that.

Nicky stroked his hair. “You’re quiet.”

Joe tugged him close and rolled them so he hovered over Nicky, peppering his face with light, sloppy kisses. “Just thinking about feeding you my banana.”

Nicky laughed, and Joe felt it wash over him. “So romantic,” he said with a smile.

“Mm. That’s me. Incurable romantic.” He ran his thumb over Nicky’s cheek and studied his eyes before leaning in and kissing him, a gentle press of lips. _You could tell him now_. _Tell him you love him. Tell him your heart beats only for him._

It was something a younger version of himself would blurt out, but Joe was no longer young. He’ll tell Nicky, he decided, but not tonight. When he tells him, it will be because he can tell _everyone_. 

In the meantime, he wanted to get lost in the wilderness – the wildness - of Nicky’s sexuality again; to give himself over to it and him, to remind him – if he needed the reminder – what Joe could give him.

He drew away from the kiss and watched as a dreamy smile spread across Nicky’s face. His eyes were closed. Joe dragged the edge of his teeth along his jaw. “Are you sore?”

Nicky sighed and stroked Joe’s hair. “A little. Last night was…vigorous.”

Joe bit down a little against the thin skin at Nicky’s throat, felt the pulse of the vein against his tongue. “Mmm, I like that word choice. I would say I fucked you until you saw God.”

“Very bold to say that to someone who considered being a priest.”

“God, how the _fuck_ do I keep forgetting about that,” Joe asked, as he nudged Nicky’s legs apart with his own and began to make his way down his body. “It’s too easy. Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he murmured against his hip bone. 

“Forgive me.”

“For what?” Joe looked up before licking a long stripe along the underside of Nicky’s cock. He thrilled at Nicky’s answering sigh, the way his hands dug into his hair. 

“It’s ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’”

“Have you?” he smirked. “Tell me more, my child.” He closed his mouth tight around the head and watched Nicky’s back arch against the feeling, his mouth dropping on a silent moan.

The room was silent too; just the rustle of the sheets against their bodies, the whispering scratches of skin against skin, the wet rasp of his lips and tongue on Nicky. And their breathing; Joe’s muffled groans and Nicky’s increasingly harsh exhalations. 

Nicky removed one tightly clenched hand from his hair and Joe briefly mourned the loss, but only until he looked up and caught Nicky biting at the meat of his hand between thumb and wrist.

He stared, and realized: _You’re going about this all wrong._ Nicky could get a blowjob from anyone. He could only get what he really wanted from Joe.

So he pulled his mouth away from Nicky’s cock with one last lick and waited until he looked down with a questioning look. When Nicky’s eyes found his, he made his voice cold. “Stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand. Up,” he said again, and Nicky obeyed, his eyes gone wide and dark, kicking his legs over the side of the mattress to stand next to the bed. Joe got to his feet and circled around to Nicky’s front. He caught Nicky’s gaze, which looked confused and helpless, his dark pupils blow into the iris. _You can only get this from me._

“Kneel.” 

Nicky dropped to his knees and then back to his heels and looked up at Joe, his eyes now beseeching, and the power of it coursed through Joe – it was amazing, the feeling, like an actual drug high. He lightly slapped Nicky’s cheek and a gasp fled from his mouth, floating up to Joe’s ears. He felt the high settle deeper into his bones.

He hummed. “You look good like that, on your knees for me.” He watched as Nicky swallowed. “You know why you’re there?”

“No.”

“Because you want to be there, don’t you? You want to show me what an obedient little slut looks like.” He held his gaze. “And because you haven’t been able to get this from anyone else, have you?”

For a moment, clarity came to Nicky’s face. “I haven’t.” _Never until you,_ his eyes said, and Joe let the moment hover between them. He drew his hands through Nicky’s hair with one hand and pulled his head back until a grunt emerged from his throat.

“Stay there.”

He picked up his phone and unlocked it, pulled up the video app, and set it against the lamp on the bedside table, screen facing towards them. He watched Nicky’s expression as comprehension dawned, his face looking pleadingly up at Joe’s. “Joe. You can’t.”

Joe crouched down and held Nicky’s face in one hand. “I haven’t started recording yet. I won’t, if you really don’t want me to. This is what we have pineapple for.” He caught his gaze, waiting for the word. When he didn’t get it, he continued. “But I want to remember this, when I’m back home. Because in a few weeks, I’ll think that it can’t be possible; that someone so gorgeous and wonderful, was such a perfect little whore.” With a flicker of a smile, he said, “I’ll watch this, and I’ll make myself come, over and over, and I’ll think of you.” Nicky shut his eyes and the length of his body tensed. Joe pushed his thumb into Nicky’s mouth and watched as the soft skin enveloped it, as his cheeks hollowed to suck. “Show me what you’ll do, while I’m gone.”

Nicky looked up, his expression dark and turned on, and it lit Joe the fuck up, that _he_ was the one who’d put it there. He stood and pressed the red button to record. “Go on.” He waited, straight-backed, legs slightly spread, his wrists grasped behind him. He tried to keep his gaze cool and uninterested as he surveyed the man at his feet. “Fuck yourself,” he commanded.

Nicky brought a tremulous hand up to his cock, which was hard and already leaking – from the scene _alone_ , Joe realized – and breathed out a shaking sigh at the contact. He cast a final concerned glance at the camera before closing his eyes and drawing his fist from the ruddy head to the base, lightly, as if concerned too much pressure would end things too quickly. Joe watched the movement, watched the contracting muscles of his shoulder and arm underneath the soft white skin, practically glowing in the moonlight. It would look ethereal in the video, he knew. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

Once his eyes were on Joe’s, he said, “Faster.” Nicky sat further back onto his heels and began to thrust into his hands, his now desperate expression not leaving Joe’s, and it was – fuck, it was so hot, like he was living his own porn – Joe’s hand was on his cock, absentmindedly stroking himself before he realized what he was doing.

Nicky licked his lips, sank his teeth into the plush bottom lip, his eyes pleading, and with the expression Joe understood exactly what Nicky wanted from him in that moment – submission with a hint of pain. 

He ran a gentle hand through Nicky’s hair, letting the soft strands slowly flow through his fingers for the camera, lazily petting him as Nicky continued to stroke himself, his breaths coming up rougher with each stroke. When Nicky sighed and leaned into the touch, Joe fisted his hair and _pulled_ , making Nicky gasp, a broken, aching thing that sounded as if it had been forced from his lungs. Joe smiled at the sound. All of the things Nicky had ever wanted, that no one had given him. _Never until me_. 

The backs of his fingers stroked gently down the side of Nicky’s face; featherlight over a hard cheekbone, velvet lips, the sharp cut of his jaw.

“Are you close?” Joe asked, as he grasped the base of his own cock and pressed the tip against Nicky’s face, tracing the path his fingers had just taken. Nicky began to pant, below him. “I don’t know why I ask; it’s obvious. You’re dying to come, isn’t that right?”

Nicky jerked his head in a minute nod, unable to move much because of Joe’s hard grip still in his hair. 

“Tell me.”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“I see.” He narrowed his eyes, made his voice sharp. “Don’t.”

Nicky pulled his hands away from himself, slightly trembling hands placed on his thighs.

The slap was planned, a performative act for the camera - for his future self as much as for Nicky - so it was harder than the first; a careful smack that made Nicky moan like he was _dying_. Joe’s answering groan was entirely accidental; the pearl of come that appeared at the tip of his cock, a surprise – tight, furious lust had grabbed a hold of him at Nicky’s reaction and squeezed both from him. It settled high in his chest.

“Fuck, you liked that.” It wasn’t a question.

“ _Yes.”_ Nicky’s ribs expanded and collapsed with shaking breaths. Joe felt similarly overcome, his own chest heaving. He gazed down at Nicky’s upturned face, listening to their ragged breaths, loud in the silence of the night.

“All right,” he muttered. Keeping his cock hovering just above Nicky’s parted lips, he began to stroke himself. When Nicky dropped his jaw in an open invitation, Joe fisted the base and pressed the tip against his waiting tongue. His lips closed, and Joe sank a few inches into the damp heat. Nicky set to work, his mouth dropping down further and further, choking a little. It felt perfect, any time Nicky touched him it felt _perfect_ , and this time was no different, the soft, wet slide of his muscles dragging on his cock, his _eyes,_ when he looked up at him, like Joe was giving him a fucking gift, it was… he felt the muscles in his inner thigh twitch as heat began to lick up his spine. He was too close. He didn’t want this to end. He hauled himself out and slapped him again – a little harder this time – and began to jerk himself over Nicky’s mouth, watching his face the whole time. His eyes were glazed over, he looked drunk, and Joe was sure that he was the most powerful man in the world.

He teasingly pressed his cock against Nicky’s bottom lip but pulled away when his mouth began to wrap around the head, slapping him again, on the opposite cheek this time. When Nicky’s mouth dropped open on another fatal sounding moan he finally pressed his cock back into his heat. The base of his spine lit up, desire flaming up to the back of his neck as he plunged his fingers into Nicky’s hair.

“Fuck, you’re so good at this, Nicky.” His head bobbed faster, taking him deeper, lewd choking sounds filling up the room with every pass. “When you told me you were good at it, walking home that night, I should’ve let you show me. I wish I’d known what a slut you were then, I would’ve fucked you up against the wall.” He closed his eyes, remembering that night, the twinkling lights, the feeling of forever when he’d taken his hand. “Made you scream like I did last night, wake up the street so everyone could watch you take my come – _ah –“_ Nicky’s lips touched his torso and he gasped at the feeling – the knowledge – that Nicky had taken him to the back of his throat. Nicky moaned around him, the vibration traveling up his cock and into his body. He quickly pulled out and furiously jacked himself. “Open,” he gasped. Nicky’s mouth dropped open and his tongue presented itself. “I’m gonna come on your face. That perfect fucking face –“ He moaned, feeling the pleasure squeezing at the base of his spine.

“Do it,” Nicky murmured. “Come all over me, so everyone knows I’m yours, that I belong to you – “

“ _Fuck_.” His lungs, his heart, _everything_ seized; and he came, hot bursts of come pumping out of him, almost painful in its intensity, landing on Nicky’s forehead, eyebrow, nose, lips, and in his open mouth. He dropped to his knees, a puppet with its strings cut, no longer able to control his actions, and pushed Nicky to the ground. He began to pump his cock, overwhelmed by the urge to make him feel the same pleasure, licking his own come from the side of his mouth before kissing him with everything he had, tasting himself inside. “Come for me, Nicky,” he whispered, and then drank down his answering gasp, felt the come spilling onto his hand, easing his way. He pumped him until there was nothing left to give, until Nicky was trembling against his lips. 

Joe kissed Nicky’s forehead, opened his mouth to lick the dots of his own release, moved up to his nose and repeated the action, lapping everywhere he’d come. He somehow found the energy to grab his discarded t-shirt from earlier and wiped Nicky’s stomach clean. He tossed it aside and collapsed onto his back next to him, listening to Nicky’s slow, even breathing.

“Well, fuck,” he finally said, “that was amazing.”

Nicky looked over at him with an infinitesimal little smirk. “We are very good at that.”

Joe barked out a laugh. “What a fucking understatement. I feel like I don’t have bones anymore.” He wiped a hand over his face and then found one of Nicky’s, twining their fingers together and drawing them to his face to kiss his knuckles. He looked up and caught Nicky’s gaze, which was warm and fond. “All of that – it was okay?”

He watched as a blush took shape. “You mean when you slapped me?” he asked bluntly.

Joe rolled onto his hip to face him. “Yeah, that.”

“It was…I was a little bit shocked at how much I liked it.”

“Me too.” Nicky cocked an eyebrow at him in a silent response and Joe understood the expression immediately. It meant, _You’re shocked at how much_ I _liked it?_ “Yeah – how much I liked it too. The way you looked after, I felt like…” he trailed off, collecting his thoughts, wanting to get it right, “like I’d put more oxygen into your lungs. Does that make sense?” 

Nicky pushed at his chest until he turned onto his back. He traced Joe’s lips with his thumb. “Like you let me breathe easier? Yes. That makes sense. I’ve thought that before, when we are together.” He leaned in and kissed him, a soft press of warm lips, a gentle exhalation as he pulled away.

 _Fall in love with me,_ he’d whispered. _Oh, fuck it,_ Joe thought.

“I… I think I’m already in love with you.” Nicky’s lips parted, but he said nothing, his gaze shifting between his eyes. The silence was deafening; Joe felt his stomach drop into his feet, numbness spreading from where it landed. His mouth opened, to – well, not take it back, but soften it somehow, make it okay, somehow, _Christ, you’ve fucked this up, he didn’t actually tell you he was in love with you, it was a command for the future –_

“I think I’m already in love with you too,” he said. Joe’s eyes snapped back to his face, and he saw an unsure little smile, a shadowy twitching of lips that bloomed into a grin at whatever he saw in Joe’s expression. 

The numbness transformed into air; he felt so light with it he worried he might float the fuck away, so he rolled on top of Nicky and wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his neck, needing his solidness to anchor him to the earth. He felt Nicky’s strong hands in his hair, his steady lips against his head. 

“This is crazy, right? Too fast?”

“No. Not crazy,” Nicky responded. “Wonderful.”

He lifted his head up from its hiding place. “Yeah?”

“Si. I have never… I’ve never felt this way about someone. It’s frightening, but I don’t think it’s crazy.”

Joe hauled himself up and dropped his forehead against Nicky’s, looking directly into his eyes, recording the composition of his irises, the brushstrokes of ultramarine, cerulean, absinthe. The depth of the sea; the heights of heaven; a drink to make you forget all of your worries. All of the shades a person could sink into and never be seen again. Beautiful. “I love you,” Joe said.

Nicky gave him an answering grin – broad and wide - and then a kiss, and Joe sank in even further. “I love you too.” 

Joe heard the solid thunk of flesh against metal at the same time Nicky hissed in pain. He pulled away, confused and briefly panicked. “What was that? Are you okay?”

Nicky laughed. “Yes – I was trying to wrap my legs around you but my knee was under the bed, and I hit the frame.” Joe smiled, relieved. “Stupid,” he continued.

“Maybe we should get up off of the floor?” he suggested. He hauled himself up and held out a hand to help Nicky do the same. From the corner of his eye, on the bed side table, he saw movement. _The phone_.

“Oh my god,” he said.

“What?”

“The phone. I forgot to stop it.” Nicky laughed and fell back on the mattress, spread his arms wide and stretched, looking more content than Joe had ever seen him.

“I fail to see the problem,” he said, as Joe stopped the recording. 

The rest of the morning was lost to posterity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends! After reading the first dozen or so comments on this, I would like to be straight up: The sex tape is not a major plot point, and it will not end up on the internet.


	19. a good man is hard to find

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A few quick notes!  
> 1\. If you read the last chapter and you're still feeling anxiety about "the tape" and you don't mind spoilering yourself, please check out the author's note at the end of chapter 18.
> 
> 2\. As always and forever and until the end of time, thank you to Marivan for being the best gosh-darn beta reader in all the land.
> 
> 3\. Gentle Sleaze (great name) made art!!!! For this fic!!!!!! Words cannot describe how happy this has made me. [Check it out here.](https://gentlesleaze.tumblr.com/post/642475207946289153/fics-i-wish-i-could-watch-the-reality-of) Sob. 
> 
> Okay. On with the show.

“Do you want to come with me to pick up Nile?” Joe asked through a yawn the next morning, as he sat at the kitchen island. He poured milk into his espresso, took a sip and looked expectantly up at Nicky. His hair was a little flat against one side and riotously curly on the other and his eyes were barely open. Of course, he was the most beautiful thing Nicky had ever seen.

“If you would like me to, yes of course. I thought perhaps you might wish to have some time alone with her.”

Joe set his mug down on the counter and came around the corner to take Nicky’s hand and press it softly against his lips. They were warm, still slightly swollen from a quick _thank you for making coffee_ peck that had turned into – there was no other more dignified way to put it – a make out session against the counter.

“I want her to meet my new boyfriend,” Joe muttered against his skin. “Besides, I only have a few days left. I want to spend as much time with you as I can too.”

 _His boyfriend._ He was Joe’s _boyfriend_. And his boyfriend wanted to introduce him to his best friend. He felt floored anew.

“I would love to,” he said. “But I will have to go get the car.”

“The car?” Joe asked.

Nicky just responded with a smirk, and took a sip of his espresso.

* * *

The car was a Perivinca Blue 1964 Alfa Romeo convertible, and Nicky decided that buying it had been worth every single cent – and it had been a _lot_ of cents – just for the look on Joe’s face when he picked him up outside of his building a few hours later.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this car?” Joe grinned and ran a long-fingered hand along the driver side door. “Jesus Nicky. I’m turned on just looking at it.”

“Ah – yes.” Nicky pushed his sunglasses back into his hair and looked in the rearview mirror to make sure no other cars were behind him in the narrow street. “That is called mechanophilia, and if you wish to explore it, we can.”

Joe paused for a moment and then burst out laughing, the peals of his laughter loud enough to turn the heads of some of the diners at the trattoria across the way. Nicky grinned up at Joe and watched as he leaned in, getting closer and closer until his lips were a whisper away.

“I love that dry wit,” Joe muttered, with that famous sparkle in his smiling eyes.

“I’m glad,” Nicky sighed, and then his breath left him completely when Joe kissed him. The wonder of it – kissing outside, with strangers staring at them – made Nicky feel almost light-headed.

A car horn honked and Joe pulled away, laughing, to run around the front of the car before dropping into the passenger seat.

“Scusatemi per il ritardo,” Nicky shouted with a wave and a grin, thinking, _I have never been less sorry for anything in my life._

* * *

They had been leaning against the car at Fiumicino for only two or three minutes when Joe suddenly straightened and then opened his arms with a shout. A tallish black woman threw herself into his arms, squealing. He quickly spun her around – fast enough that her braids flew out around her - then let her feet hit the ground again. 

Nicky felt his heart beating in his chest at the scene. Joe was so… effervescent. Delightfully alive. _And he loves you,_ he reminded himself. It was astonishing.

Nile glanced over at Nicky and her eyes widened slightly before she looked back at Joe with an obvious question on her face.

“Ah, yes, Nile, this is Nicolo di Genova. Nicky, this is Nile Freeman. Agent extraordinaire and my best friend.” He stood there smiling at the two of them. Nicky put out a hand and they shook. She seemed surprised, and Nicky felt a twinge of misgiving - surely Joe had told her he’d be joining them? 

“It’s lovely to meet you Nile. You can call me Nico.” He flashed his movie-star smile at her – realizing as he did that he’d had to use it so infrequently recently – and watched as she raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, of course, it’s great to meet you too – uh, _Nico._ ” She shot a pointed look at Joe. “This your ride?” she asked, gesturing at the car he still leaned against.

“It is.”

“Pretty sweet.”

“Thank you.”

Joe popped the trunk and put her bag inside. “I figure we squire you to your hotel, grab some lunch, and then do some sightseeing?” He slammed the trunk shut. “I haven’t done much sightseeing myself. Too busy.” He shot a quick glance at Nicky from under his absurdly thick eyelashes that made him think of yesterday evening, when Joe had looked up at him from the cold tile floor of his shower, water running through his curly hair and down his chest before he’d taken him in his mouth. He looked away.

He felt Nile’s canny gaze on him. “Yeah, well. Since this is my first time in Rome I _guess_ I can let an Italian movie star with a vintage Italian car show me around.”

“Great!” Joe clapped his hands together with a broad smile and hopped in the backseat. 

Nicky opened the passenger door for Nile and bowed slightly as she slid in. “Signora.”

“Oh, you are smooth,” she said appraisingly, as he shut the door. He watched her look back at Joe and whisper something furiously to him as he jogged around the side of the car. Whatever she said didn’t seem to bother Joe; he just smiled broadly and spread his arms wide against the back of the seat.

Nicky started the car and tried to ignore the part of his brain telling him that Joe hadn’t told his best friend about their relationship. _Besides, even if he hadn’t, that’s fine. You never told Andy, did you?_ It was a valid point.

* * *

“So, Nile. Tell me about yourself.” Nicky took a generous sip of wine and sat back, feeling the sun against the back of his neck. The day had turned out warm and bright – Rome finally giving them a break from the cold. “Joe has told me some, but I wish to hear from you.”

Nile shot a glance at Joe. “All good things, right, Joe?”

Joe grinned. “Of course! Nile, you know that I have nothing bad to say about you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Oh, tell him about your twenty-eighth birthday,” Joe said, laughing.

“Joe!”

“Oh, come on. That was a great night. You slept in my bathtub, remember?”

She rolled her neck. “I do. I think I’m still working the kinks out.” She giggled and looked at Nicky with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes. “Joe sang ‘You Oughta Know’ for karaoke in front of –“ she laughed, “ _way_ too many people. I’ll never forget. He’s wailing about going down on dudes in a theatre, the _look_ on some people’s faces.”

“Hey, we were at Mary’s, that wasn’t _too_ weird.”

“I guess. But half the people there thought you were straight. Oh - do you remember that drag queen? She was in _love_ with you.”

“Triple XXX Libris? Of course.” He turned to Nicky and said, as an aside, “Smart gal. Reads a lot.” Nicky snorted.

“Oh my God, and Jen showed up and bought us all shots?” Nile smiled. “Man, that _was_ a fun night.”

“It was. I also did cocaine off of a stripper’s ass, thus checking that item off of fifteen year old’s Yusuf Al- Kaysani’s ‘wildest dreams’ bucket list.”

“Male or female stripper?” Nicky asked.

“Male. What do you take me for?” He waggled his eyebrows at Nicky. “Don’t worry,” he continued, “his ass wasn’t _nearly_ as good as yours.”

“I am not worried,” Nicky said mildly. “I have a great ass.” Nile giggled. At the sound, his lips quirked up infinitesimally.

“Yeah you do,” Joe practically growled, before he kissed him full on the mouth, in the middle of the Piazza del Popolo. Joe pulled away with a smile and Nicky grinned cheekily at the couple staring at them from another table, who turned away quickly. They’d been glancing over on and off for the past hour – furtive little stares every few minutes with whispered asides. They probably recognized him, he’d realized. He took another sip of his wine and tried to ignore them.

“So, how long have you two been…?” Nile trailed off and waited for them to respond.

“Been what, Nile?” Joe asked, with a cheeky grin.

She laughed. “Come _on,_ man. How long have you two been together?”

Joe glanced at him. “A few weeks.”

“Joe, you’ve only _been here_ for a few weeks.”

“Yeah, well.” He said with a shrug. His hand found Nicky’s upper thigh under the table, pressing softly. He shivered, pride and arousal rippling through him in equal measure.

She hummed and took a sip of water, her eyes looking out over the piazza. “So, what’s next on the agenda? I need to burn off some of this pasta.” Her eyes found Joe’s over the edge of her sunglasses. “And you do too.”

“Nile! I’m in peak physical condition.”

“As your friend I will agree with you. Of course you are. You’re a beautiful man, and these statues – “ she pointed at the handful of marble statues that dotted the square around them, “haven’t got shit on you. As your agent, I’ll remind you that you’re still being called the Divine Comedian and you’re thirty-six years old. Gotta keep that six pack for as long as you can, my friend.” Nicky watched with a fond smile as Joe sulkily contemplated his unfinished pasta. 

A shadow fell over their table. Nicky looked up to find the couple from the other table standing next to him.

“You’re Nicolo di Genova, aren’t you?” the woman asked in Italian.

He sat a little straighter. “I am, yes.”

The woman looked to her friend, and then back to him. “I apologize – I know you’re enjoying lunch with your… your boyfriend?” She paused and Nicky nodded, _yes._ He felt Joe’s eyes on him. “I wouldn’t normally intrude, but I just wanted to say thank you, for being, you know… _out_.” She blushed, as if it were embarrassing. “My brother – he’s sixteen – he’s –“ she hesitated for a breath, “he’s gay too. He hates Italy, but he loves you, and I think it really helps him to see someone like you being out and successful here. So. I just wanted to say thank you.” 

Nicky had sat silently through her speech, unsure what to say, but he rose as she turned to leave.

“Miss!” She paused and turned back. “Thank you, for saying that. I’m glad to…help. However I am. Do you want me to sign something, or to take a picture? For your brother?”

She smiled wide. “Oh! Yes, a message, maybe? If you wouldn’t mind. His name is Matteo.”

“Of course. One moment.” He walked back to the table and grabbed a paper napkin, quickly realized he had no way to write. “Do you have a pen?” he asked Joe and Nile, who were both watching him with open fascination.

Nile dug in her purse and handed one to him. 

He wrote down the first thing that came to his head: _Matteo_ , _Si te stesso, tutto seguir_ _à._ Then his signature. He walked back over to the woman and handed it to her. She quickly read it and looked back up at him. “Good advice for all of us. I hope he takes it to heart. Thank you again.”

“Of course,” Nicky responded. “Have a good rest of your day.”

“We will. You too.” She leaned in to him conspiratorially and said, “Your boyfriend - he’s very cute.”

Nicky smiled, a bit taken aback by her familiarity but not wishing to show it. “Thank you,” he said. They left with a wave.

He sat back down at their table and wiped a hand over his mouth, looked over at Joe and Nile, who were staring at him, obviously waiting for an explanation.

“They were, um – fans.”

“What’d they say?” Joe asked.

“She thanked me for being out. She told me that her younger brother is gay as well, and he struggles with it. Italy is not… It is not a very forgiving place, to be openly queer. She seemed to think that my – my existence…helps him.” He swiped a hand through his hair, feeling unaccountably anxious. Those sorts of interactions didn’t happen often, but when they did they always left him feeling a bit jittery. He liked attention for his acting, but for _himself_ – for just existing – it was always disconcerting. “I wrote him a note.”

“What’d it say?” Nile asked.

“Be yourself, and the rest will follow.”

Something passed over Joe’s face, there and gone in a flash before he put his hand to the back of Nicky’s neck and squeezed. “That was kind of you,” he said. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. If they were alone, he might ask why, but Nile was still watching them from across the table.

So instead he said, “She also told me that you were cute.”

Joe grinned cheekily. “So she’s a woman of good taste.”

Nicky smiled; glad he seemed to be back to his usual self. “Joe, your ego is as big as…” he struggled to think of a witty rejoinder.

“My dick?” Joe supplied with a smirk. Nicky heard Nile snort.

“Oh, zitto. Mine is bigger anyways,” Nicky responded, and Nile gasped and then burst out laughing. Joe did too; full-throated and entirely joyful. Nicky felt a blush heat his cheeks.

“Oh shit, he fucking _got you_ Joe, you should see the look on your face. Wait, I’ll show you, let me get a picture.” She fumbled for her phone and took a picture just as Joe buried his grinning face in Nicky’s neck. She looked at her screen and then looked back up at them. “Ugh, dammit, it’s cute,” she said, sliding the phone across the table so they could see. “I really wanted to get a picture of your face Joe; it was too good.”

Nicky looked at the screen and saw a man with a too-big nose and bags under his eyes who looked genuinely _happy_ , with a beautiful, laughing, golden-skinned man and crinkling eyes leaning into his neck with genuine affection. Nicky and Joe. He loved it.

“Can you send that to me, Nile?” he asked, glancing up at her and tapping the screen with his finger.

She looked back at him with a little smile. “Of course.”

* * *

On the short walk to the Santa Maria del Popolo, a small, nondescript church on the corner of the large piazza, Joe held his hand, and Nicky’s heart thumped hard enough at the contact that he wondered if Joe could feel it. They’d done this before of course – walked around the city together – but never holding hands, never _together._ From behind his sunglasses he observed every glance their way, every reaction. An older woman in a hijab smiled at their interlocked hands; a younger man’s eyes narrowed as he sucked on a cigarette; two teenage girls giggled behind their hands, eyeing them up. Nicky smiled at all of them. The contact was so easy and casual, so _natural,_ and he felt like he was fifteen again, dizzy with pride at being chosen. And now, in love, and with the casual touch of ownership… it was overwhelming. Happiness filled him up, made him buoyant. 

At the entrance to the church he squeezed Joe’s hand, and Joe squeezed back. At that moment, nothing else much mattered.

Nicky dropped his hand as they entered the cool, quiet space. There were a handful of other tourists and a few people who looked to be actively praying up at the front near the ornate altar. It smelled of incense and burning candles, exactly like every other Italian church he’d ever been to in his life. He ignored his instinctual impulse to make the sign of the cross, and was a little surprised to see Nile doing so.

“Over here,” he whispered, gesturing for them to follow as he led them deeper into the building.

“This is really beautiful,” Nile said quietly. Nicky looked over his shoulder at her. She was somehow both walking and staring open mouthed up at the ornate ceiling with its colorful friezes and frescoes. He’d rather forgotten what it was like to be impressed by a church, but her quiet wonder reminded him of how it used to feel. He hoped to impress her further.

He turned left, leading them into the north transept, its walls dominated by two gigantic paintings. He pointed to the large canvas that loomed over them on the wall to his left. It depicted an old man nailed to the beams of a crucifix, with three men struggling to hoist it upright so that it could hang upside-down. “ _Crucifixion of St. Peter_ ,” he said. He pointed to the canvas on the wall to his right, which showed a man lying on his back on the ground, his arms outstretched towards the dark sky and a horse standing above him. “ _Conversion on the Way to Damascus_.” He dropped his hand and looked over at Nile and Joe. “Caravaggio.”

“No way,” Nile breathed, walking closer to the painting.

Nicky watched her reaction, immensely pleased that he’d judged this correctly. “If I remember correctly, these were commissioned specifically for this church. Beautiful, no?”

“Yeah,” Nile murmured, not taking her eyes from the canvas.

“Joe told me that you enjoyed classical art, and I wanted you to be able to see something of it even though we have so little time to be tourists.” 

He felt a touch at his hand and looked over to see Joe looking at him softly, his dark eyes gleaming despite the dark of the space. He pressed his hand to Nicky’s jaw, his thumb dragging along his cheekbone, back and forth, back and forth, and the way he _looked_ at him… Nicky sighed as Joe pressed a kiss to his cheek and then drew away.

“This was very thoughtful, Nicolo,” Joe whispered. “You really are a good man.” Nicky felt foggy and delighted, stupid with love and gratitude as he felt Joe’s hand drop. He fought the impulse to grab his fingers and drag them back up to cup his face.

Instead he shrugged. “Of course. Maybe next time we can take her to the Villa Borghese. Spend the day there.”

Joe smiled at that, his dimple pulling in tight. “Yeah. Next time.”

* * *

Nicky’s back hit the door as it shut, Joe’s hands immediately between them, unzipping Nicky’s jacket and freeing the buttons of his shirt below. Nicky’s hands fumbled to do the same, the furious and sudden arousal thrumming through his blood making it difficult; even harder when Joe dropped to his knees and began working at his jeans. He ran his fingers through Joe’s hair, short nails raking his scalp. 

“I want to make you feel good,” Joe muttered as he slid Nicky’s jeans and underwear to his ankles, pulled them and his socks and shoes off.

“You are. You do.” He gasped as Joe hitched one of his legs up over his shoulder and ran his tongue along Nicky’s rapidly filling cock.

“No, I mean… I want to blow your mind. Give you what you want.” He spat on Nicky’s cock before wrapping his hand around the base, the gesture so undoubtedly _dirty_ Nicky’s arousal clenched tight as a fist around his neck. He looked down, drinking in Joe’s face – God, his _face_ – his features normally so open and joyful now strained and dangerous, dripping with sex. “Hands against the wall. Don’t move them. Think you can do that?”

The implication – that he couldn’t, that he was too desperate – shot up his body to his head, which thunked against the wood of the door. He set his shaking hands palm down against it. “Yes. I can do that.”

“You’re sure? I’m not.” One hand worked at Nicky’s cock, callous strokes up and down; the other cupped his balls, roughly rolling them. 

“Why?”

“You know why.” He breathed out against the head of his cock, where he was already wet with arousal. “Because you’re already dripping.” He squeezed him tight, making Nicky’s back arch and his head grind against the wood. His hands did not move.

Joe’s mouth was heaven; the things it said, its tight, wet slide against his cock, the tip of his tongue dipping into the slit, lapping at what Nicky gave him. When he felt the pull of suction and a spit slick fingertip against his entrance, slowly breaching him, he jerked hard enough at the bolt of pleasure that Joe pulled off with a strangled gasp. The sound went straight to his head. “See?” he breathed. “It’s been – what? – five minutes? And you’re close already.”

His control was bleeding out. He was gasping and trembling. The leg he stood on shook, the other leg clenched tight down Joe’s back. His hands ached to run through Joe’s hair, to pull his hungry mouth down more thoroughly onto his throbbing cock, to fuck him more completely, because what Joe wanted was for Nicky to come.

 _What Joe wants_.

He wanted to please Joe – Joe, who’d always given him what he wanted. Slapped him, spanked him, spat on him. He wanted to cater to Joe in the same way, whatever _he_ wanted – to give him the same release, the same…escape. And he had no idea what that looked like for him. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He _loved him_ , and he didn’t know. He wrenched himself away from the edge.

“Wait – Joe.”

Joe eased his lips off of Nicky and looked up with questioning eyes. “Yes?”

“What do you want?” 

He watched Joe’s lips curl into a smile. “This, ya amar.” He pressed his lips back to Nicky’s cock, kissing down to his balls and tonguing at the soft skin there. He sighed into the pleasure but fought the urge to give in - he wouldn’t get anywhere with Joe still on his knees.

“No. Stand up.” 

Joe stood in an instant. “What’s wrong, Nicolo?” 

“Nothing is wrong, I just had a thought that will not leave me.” Nicky tilted his head until Joe understood his silent command and leaned in to kiss him, his body melting into his when Nicky gave him his tongue. He took Joe’s hand and led him into his bedroom, where he silently undressed him until he was entirely naked before pressing him to sit on the bed. Nicky straddled his lap and sat back against his thighs, cradled Joe’s head in his hands and kissed him again, softly this time, trying to imbue into it all of the wonder he felt at Joe’s love. He pulled away but held his gaze.

“What would you want, if you did not know my tastes?”

His eyebrows quirked in obvious confusion. “But I do know your tastes Nicky.” He smiled and turned to place a kiss at Nicky’s palm. “They’re delightful.”

Nicky kissed his temple, so pleased by the words his heart felt like it was too big for his chest. “And I am so glad you feel that way. But what is it that you fantasize about? When you’re alone?”

Joe paused, apparently hearing the seriousness in Nicky’s tone, and seemed to turn over the question in his head. Nicky waited, moving his fingers through Joe’s riotous curls. “Honestly – it’s _this_. Just…being with you, making you feel loved. The fact that you trusted me enough to tell about what you like, and you let me do these things to you. That no one else has.”

Nicky felt himself fall even further.

“You’re so…good,” he continued. “Overflowing with kindness. Anyone who sees you wants you, or wants to know you, but I only I get to see how… how wild you get. It turns me on so much Nicky, giving you what you want. It really does.”

It was physical, his reaction to those words; relief, joy, disbelief, gratitude bubbling in his chest, tightening his lungs. He ducked his head into the softness of Joe’s curls so he could hide. “You are going to kill me, Joe.”

“I hope not,” he murmured. His hands rubbed down Nicky’s back in long sweeps. “I really like you. It’d be a real shame, if you died.”

Nicky smiled against his hair. “I really like you too.”

“Good,” he said. He felt Joe’s hands cradling his jaw, maneuvering it so he could catch his gaze. “I love you,” Joe told him, looking him square in the eyes. “You, Nicolo di Genova, are fucking wonderful. I would love to slap and bite and choke you until the end of time, if you’ll let me.” He drew him in for a lingering kiss before drawing away and resting his forehead against Nicky’s neck. “But there is something we haven’t done that I’d like to formally submit a request for.”

“Anything – but you must go through the proper channels for this submission.”

Joe chuckled, and Nicky, as always, felt himself swell with pride at making him laugh. “Oh yeah? I need to submit it in triplicate? Get it notarized?”

“Yes. We Italians are famously organized,” he teased.

A bark of laughter came from Joe at that. “Well that’s a fucking joke if I’ve ever heard one.” 

“It was, and you have.”

Joe’s answering smile was so broad and genuine that Nicky felt himself blush. _I make him happy,_ he realized, the simple thought both mundane and profound. His arms curled around Joe’s neck. “What do you want, Joe?” he whispered.

“I’d like for you to fuck me,” he said, setting his teeth against Nicky’s shoulder with a gentle bite that sent a shudder down Nicky’s spine.

“Oh yes?”

“Yes.”

“In any particular way?”

“Nothing fancy. Just – like you love me. Just that.”

Nicky felt a prickling sensation in his sinuses, his vision blurring. He dropped a kiss against the top of Joe’s head. ”I believe that I can manage that,” he murmured. He twisted around to grab the lube and condoms from the bedside table, tossed them onto the mattress. He pushed Joe to the middle of the bed and urged him onto his back, dropping to braced arms, planting his knees between Joe’s. He lowered down, nose brushing his. “I suppose that I could do anything, then, because no matter how we touch each other, I love you.”

Joe smiled tenderly up at him. “That’s a wonderful thing to say.”

“It is nothing but the truth.”

He sat back on his heels, grazing his palms down Joe’s chest and torso, wondering at the softness of his skin layered over the hardness of his muscles. His hands slid down to Joe’s cock, his fingertips stroking up and down along its swelling length. _Just – like you love me._

He cast his gaze up to Joe’s face and found his eyes already on him. He found the bottle of lube and poured a generous amount onto his hand, enough that some dripped down off of his wrist. The way he felt, right now – he didn’t want any pain. Never wanted any pain, for Joe. He teased a finger between Joe’s cheeks, watched his face as he lazily sank in up to the knuckle. “This is good?” he murmured.

“Yes, Nicky, yes,” he whispered, biting his lip. Nicky added a second finger and watched his as his spine began to undulate against the mattress. The sound Joe made when Nicky swallowed his cock down his throat was one he wanted never to forget. He closed his eyes and tried to memorize it, focused on all of his senses so he would remember; the heat and weight of Joe’s cock on his tongue, his heavy breathing, the salty taste of him, the way he writhed in his hands.

“Another,” Joe commanded, and Nicky of course obeyed, drawing out all the way and easing three fingers back in, smooth and slow.

When Joe’s sounds changed in pitch – each moan shot through with desperation – he pulled his mouth off of Joe’s cock with a soft sigh and sat back again, watching Joe’s face as he continued to open him up. His lips were parted, eyes closed, brows drawn tight with what looked like disbelief. The cords in his neck stood out in stark relief as he swallowed and opened his eyes, his gaze darting all around.

“Joe,” Nicky said. Joe’s eyes found Nicky’s but then snapped shut on a groan when Nicky’s other hand began to lazily stroke his cock. He watched Joe’s hands twisting in the sheets, listened to his shuddering gasps.

Joe wanted him to fuck him like he loved him – it was a different kind of servitude but he was still captive to it, in thrall to Joe’s power. He wanted to please him, no matter what form it took, because he _loved him_. And Joe loved him back.

“Sometimes, I can’t believe that you are real, Joe,” he told him. 

He replied with a soft moan.

Nicky abandoned his ministrations, but only to roll the condom onto himself, to slick himself up. When he touched him next, it was with the head of his cock at Joe’s entrance. Joe hissed at the contact and then groaned as Nicky eased himself inside a breath at a time. “No one has ever given me what you have.” A harsh breath came from Joe’s lips, his dark eyes searching Nicky’s as he leaned down, wanting to be closer than he was already – to – to climb into him and not come out, to drown in what he felt for him, so he _knew_ … Joe tucked Nicky's hair behind his ear and touched his cheeks, his lips. He continued, “No one else has ever made me feel the way that you do. No one.”

Beneath him, Joe was becoming more frantic; his arms wrapping around Nicky’s neck, a foot planted on the mattress to push up into him, to get him deeper. His breath heavy in Nicky’s ear. 

“Yes,” he gasped. “Harder –“ Nicky widened his knees so he could take him rougher, deeper; Joe’s hands trembled in his hair. “Ah – _yes_ – just like that, Nicky, oh, don’t stop –“

“I won’t. Whatever you want, Joe, tesoro, I’ll give you anything.”

“God, you’re so beautiful. And good,” Joe mouthed against Nicky’s neck. “So _good.”_ The muscles in his torso flexed, his hips rolling up to meet Nicky’s.

Nicky fucked into him harder, watched Joe move beneath him, took it all in. His beautiful skin, his face, his body, the way it all changed with sex; his skin flushing dark, his cheeks hollowing out in an O of pleasure, his muscles straining. The way he felt around him: wet, lush, _possessive._ Powerful. He wanted to surrender to it entirely.

“I love you,” Nicky gasped. “God – you’ve given me everything I ever wanted. _You,_ Joe.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“Are you close?” 

“Yes.” Joe’s eyes opened and caught Nicky’s, and the dark look in his eyes made him shiver. “Deeper,” he commanded. 

Nicky shifted his stance and grabbed Joe’s legs, held him behind the knees so he could get that much further into him. Joe lightly pressed his hands against Nicky’s neck, and the subtle tease made Nicky’s hips stutter, losing his rhythm. When they did, Joe pressed down a little tighter. “You can do better than that,” he said. Menace dripped from each word. Oh, he was close, the burn of arousal flaming impossibly higher when he looked down and saw the awe and power in Joe’s eyes. “Make me come,” Joe murmured.

The hunger and desire in his voice sent a deep throb of pleasure running through him, his body tightening, a hard urgency mounting. He had to make Joe come. Shifting his weight to one trembling hand, he began to move the other down to Joe’s cock. “No,” he said, his fingers squeezing infinitesimally in warning. 

He stopped its descent. “You can finish without it?”

“Sometimes,” Joe murmured. “If the guy’s a good lay.”

Nicky moaned and closed his eyes, the deliberate condescension and the possibility of making him come without laying a hand on his cock making him feel almost dizzy. 

“Are you a good lay, Nicolo?” he continued.

Nicky nodded helplessly, grinding his hips down into Joe, pulling out a little, trying to find his prostate so he could _press –_

“ _Ah!_ ” Joe twitched beneath him and Nicky felt victory thrumming hot in his veins. He thrust in again and again, a deep, hard pounding rhythm that had Joe crying out on each thrust. The desire to make him come turned sharp and purposeful.

“No one else,” Nicky said, watching Joe’s face. He looked lost in the best way, pleasure making him crazed. His fingers still clutched at Nicky’s throat. “No one else knows what a slut I am for you, do they, Joe? No one else sees me like this. Only you. Only ever you.”

“Nicky, Nicolo, _fuck,_ ” he sobbed, and Nicky moaned in response, loud and unashamed. Joe’s hands curled into Nicky’s hair as he rose up, dragging him down. 

“Mi stai facendo venire,” Nicky muttered through clenched teeth.

“God, _yes_ , keep talking, I’m close.”

“Sono la tua puttana, Joe,” Nicky murmured directly into his ear. He licked the shell and watched his eyes squeeze shut. “Dammelo tutto, fammi vedere cosa sai fare.” Joe’s cock throbbed between them, hot and needy, impatient hands tugged at his hair, greedy, well-muscled legs dragged him in as deep as he could go. Joe was moaning almost continuously now, he had to be close, and Nicky was close now too, so close.

“Vieni per me, come for me, Joe – per favore – tell me I can come, _please.”_

Joe’s head dropped back with a strangled shout, the hands in his hair convulsing and his body seizing up around him. He felt the wet splash of Joe’s come spattering against his belly and chest, thick and copious. 

“Fuck, Nicky, _come._ ”

And like a man surrendering to the gentle burn of the sun, he did. 

It was a suspension of time and place; just his body and Joe’s, and the merciful, debilitating pleasure they brought to each other. The darkness swallowed him bodily for a few perfect moments, a star winking out of existence, falling back to earth with a shocked cry and trembling hands. The beams of Joe’s loving smile welcomed him back.

“Madre di dio,” Nicky murmured. 

“Yes,” Joe agreed succinctly. 

All he could do was breathe. Inhale, exhale. Blink. Then he was laughing, suddenly, the sheer existential _joy_ of fucking Joe temporarily hijacking his brain. “How is it always so good?” he finally asked.

“The eternal question,” responded Joe, smiling.

Nicky started down at Joe, admiring him. So handsome and rare. A good man who made him laugh and fucked him like it was his job. A treasure.

Thinking back to what they’d just done, he said, “It was easier than I expected.”

“What was?”

“Making you come without touching you.”

Joe huffed out a laugh and wiped his hand over his face. “Me too. Usually it takes way longer. Honestly, I only brought it up as a possibility because I figured I could punish you for coming before I did.”

“Cruel,” Nicky said with a grin, dropping a kiss against his lips. _Cruel, wonderful man._

Once he regained control of his muscles he held the ring of the condom and eased himself out, tied it off and blindly dropped it on the floor. He flopped on his back next to Joe, his strong arm resting comfortably underneath his neck. 

“This has been a great fucking day,” Joe said after a few moments.

Nicky twined his left hand in Joe’s. “It has been. Nile is lovely.”

“She is.”

He remembered, then, his inkling that Joe hadn’t told her, considered bringing it up. He twisted and looked up at Joe’s peaceful expression in the rapidly fading light in his room and thought, _no, there is no point in bringing it up._ She knew about them now, and he thought that she liked him, and that was what was important. There would be plenty of time to talk about it, later.


	20. The Agony and the Ecstasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An even bigger than normal thanks to Marivan for help with this chapter. Literal angel.

Going to a club the last night they were in town had been Nile’s idea. The drugs had been Andy’s.

She’d pulled the little bag of pills out from her back pocket and looked at Joe with a smirk. Joe thought a little drunkenly that the blue of the pills matched the blue of her eyes, and that both contrasted nicely with the pink velvet upholstered walls behind her.

“What’s that?” he’d shouted, trying to make himself heard over the ridiculously loud bass that pumped around them. 

“Ecstasy,” she’d shouted back. He’d just looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “What?” she yelled into his ear. “Go big or go home, right?”

He looked around at Nicky, Booker, Nile, and Quynh. They all looked back, and then looked at each other. “Convinced me,” he said with a shrug. “Go big or go home.” He put out his hand and waited for her to drop a pill into his palm. 

* * *

Joe, a naturally happy, talkative, energetic man, _loved_ molly. He hadn’t done it in – he thought back – _wow, like seven years –_ because he was old now, dammit, and when he wasn’t working (and thus forced to stay awake until three in the morning because being a stand up sucked, sometimes) he just wanted to have a few glasses of wine and talk with his friends before tucking himself into bed at a reasonable hour but, well, as Andy had so succinctly put it: Go big or go home. 

And they’d gone big. Their VIP booth was more like a little pink jewelbox, a sumptuous room tucked into the upstairs balcony that overlooked the painted black stage and the dance floor below. The club itself was on-the-nose art-deco, like a set designer had had their wicked way with it: occasional splashes of bright pink or gold against a uniformly dark background, with beautiful people glamorously slinking about. Joe felt like he was in a Poirot film. Hopefully no one would be murdered.

Joe leaned next to Nile against the heavy black and gold balustrade on the balcony and watched the burlesque show below them. Three women with victory curls, sleeve tattoos and rapidly disappearing clothing stripped elegantly to the sound of a big band.

Nile leaned over to him. “This is the most glamorous place I’ve ever been to,” she said. “I feel like I’m in Berlin in the twenties. Or Harlem in the twenties. Or - ”

“Or Paris, in the twenties,” he interrupted, teasing. Nile tended to lose her usual laser focus when she drank. She whacked him on the arm, but, lovingly. 

They watched the show for a few long moments in a comfortable silence that slowly, by tiny increments, became uncomfortable. Joe could _feel_ Nile thinking next to him, could intuit from how her hands clutched a little tighter on the balustrade and she huffed out an irritated sounding breath that she was trying to broach a topic she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. So he wasn’t surprised when she brought up The Future (as he’d begun to think of it - capital T and F). “I’ve been thinking about you and Nico,” she finally said. “How do you want to handle…” she waved vaguely and said nothing else, but Joe immediately knew what she meant. Panic flamed up but was quickly smothered. _It’ll be fine_ , he told himself. Nicky loved him _. Love is all you need._

“We’ll figure it out – first thing when we get back. Come up with a game plan.” 

“But you _are_ planning on coming out?” she asked, cutting a canny gaze at him, her military focus reappearing. _I need to get her another shot_ , he thought. _She needs to get on my level._

“Yes,” he said. “Hopefully it doesn’t tank my career,” he said with a smile he didn’t entirely feel.

“Yeah. Fingers crossed,” she said. 

“You think it might?”

She huffed out a breath and looked away, and Joe knew he had his answer. But then she looked back at him. “If we handle it right, it might be _good_ for your career.” She put her hand on his arm and smiled gently. “T.J. Osborne came out last year and he got a ton of support, and his last album killed it. And that’s in _country music,_ Joe. Things are changing.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “But it’s different for musicians isn’t it? There’s a reason none of those Marvel guys are out, Nile, and you know it.”

“I do,” she responded patiently. “And I won’t lie to you. It might hurt your career.” She squeezed his arm reassuringly before continuing. “But it might not. This movie might be a game-changer for you. But no matter what, you’ll have your friends, and those friends won’t abandon you. It’ll be okay, Joe.”

She had a point. He had friends who were showrunners and writers for network comedies, producers on hit comedy podcasts. He could get gigs. He might be living off of their successes, and he might struggle to find work outside that circle of friends, but he wouldn’t starve. His life would look much the same as it had before _The Reality of Everything_ had come crashing into his life, and that would be okay. His parents’ faces flashed in his mind. “Yeah,” he said, shooting her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and bumping his arm against her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

Joe smiled over at his best friend in the world and was struck anew by how lucky he was to have her in his life, and how _absolutely gorgeous_ her skin was. It was so smooth - kind of freaky, actually, how smooth it was. Frankly, he thought, if he found out that she’d ever had a single pimple in her life, he’d drop dead of shock. She started giggling at his expression, and it was music.

“I think the drugs are kicking in,” he said, loudly. She shushed him with a laugh. “Sorry,” he said, just as loudly. He really wasn’t, though. “I’m realizing it because I’m thinking about how beautiful your skin is. It is really beautiful, Nile. You’re really beautiful.”

She grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Oh my god, I’m going to have to roll your ass onto the plane tomorrow, aren’t I?”

He smiled dopily. “Maybe.” Then his brain registered something that _should_ be sad, about tomorrow, but wasn’t. Nothing was really _sad,_ now. _God, I really do love ecstasy_ , he thought. “I don’t want to leave Nicky,” he remembered. “I love him.”

“I know Joe, I know. But you’ll see him again, right? You’ll come visit?”

Joe shook his head no and leaned deeper against the railing, stretching his muscles out. “I don’t know. Yes. We haven’t really talked about it in any, like, concrete terms. He has a lot he has to do here for the film, you know? It’s like…his baby.”

“Well, you’ll figure something out,” she said vaguely, her attention back on the performance below.

The truth was that they hadn’t really discussed his leaving much at all. It was something they’d gestured at over the past week, but always in the most abstract terms. The reality of their separation was always _present_ , lingering in the background, but they’d both, by some unspoken agreement, decided not to discuss it. Well, that wasn’t strictly true; Joe had tried to bring up dates for him to visit a few days ago, but Nicky had told him that it was too difficult to schedule a trip just then – he had no idea when he’d be able to ‘carve out time’. The movie was too important. It was beginning to make Joe feel a little…well, paranoid. Anxious. Wanting to hold on tighter to something that felt suddenly so much more tenuous than he’d ever thought it could be.

The song ended below and another song started as aerial silks uncurled from the ceiling. A well-muscled man in old-fashioned black pants and suspenders prowled out to a heavy, sensual bass line at the same time his beloved’s arms wrapped around him from behind. Joe quite literally felt calm melting into him from the touch, his tensed muscles relaxing; anxiety releasing its hold on his brain. He stood and sighed back into the caress.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I was gone for five minutes, Joe,” Nicky responded. He gently bit at the top of Joe’s shoulder and he felt the touch lingering in his muscles, like a brand.

“Too long,” he said, turning in his arms to look into his mesmerizing eyes. Nicky’s eyes were so beautiful, more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen - but it wasn’t just the _color_ , no, it was that in those eyes, he could see the astonishing truth of his love reflected back at him. It was more than he’d ever dreamed. How could he let it go, even for a few minutes?

He drew wondering hands into Nicky’s hair and pulled slightly so he could see his face more perfectly in the dim light. Nicky hissed and the sound curled into his brain, settling into the dark place that made him want to pull the air from Nicky’s lungs just so that he could breathe the life back into him. He marveled at the strong column of his neck, the heavy blood thrumming through Nicky’s carotid arteries beneath the surface of his breathtaking skin. When Joe’s hand finally touched Nicky’s nape, they both groaned. Joe flicked his eyes back to Nicky’s, saw the pupils blown out with lust and chemicals, hunger in his gaze. He grabbed his jaw with one hand and, with a shaking sigh, kissed him, pushing his tongue into Nicky’s mouth with the high-as-hell thought that their souls were speaking to one another.

“Hey guys?” Joe reluctantly pulled away and turned to see Andy leaning against the balustrade, arms and ankles crossed and a little smile on her face. She waved. “So, we now have a bet going that you’re going to be arrested for public indecency tonight.”

Joe smiled dopily as he was hit with a wave of fondness for this no-nonsense woman. He’d just been talking to Nile too, he remembered, looking over to where she’d stood. She’d disappeared.

With a rueful smile, Nicky stepped back slightly from Joe. “Apologies, Andy, we are being very rude.”

“Oh, no need to apologize to me. You guys are going to be great publicity for the movie. Keep it up.” She looked pointedly behind them, to where two tall, strikingly beautiful women were obviously trying their hardest _not_ to look back in their direction. “Pretty sure they’d pay good money to watch you two go at it.”

“Too bad we won’t be paid per view, huh?” Joe said. _Let them look_ , he thought. Pride thrummed through him, filling up his chest. _I’m with the most beautiful man in this room._ He watched as their eyes flicked back to where he and Nicky stood and he realized - slowly; the amount of dopamine currently being dumped into his brain making it hard to think clearly - that they were actually looking at him. Which was odd. When he was with Nicky, people always looked at _Nicky_. Why wouldn’t they? He was a bit famous, and beautiful, and kind, and... 

American accents cut through his hazy thoughts, and his blood went cold. He’d never understood that phrase, but he fucking did now. They didn’t recognize Nicky, he realized. They recognized _him_. _Fuck,_ he thought. “There’s no photos in here, right?” he asked Andy. His words sounded panicky even to his own ears.

From the corner of his own eyes he saw Nicky’s gaze snap to his face; felt a cooly assessing stare roaming over his features. He studiously avoided looking back at him. 

“There’s not,” Andy said slowly. She stared at him too, before glancing over at Nicky. He was suddenly acutely aware that there was a conversation happening here that he wasn’t privy to. 

The music abruptly changed around them – “Blinding Lights” filling the space. Suddenly Nile was at his side, pulling at his arm. “Come on, Joe, I’ve been waiting to dance to this song since the moment I got my fucking COVID vaccine, we’re dancing. Now.” He let himself be led away. 

* * *

When his horrible, stupid fucking alarm rang at seven am the next day, he cursed… _everything_. Every decision he’d ever made. His flight was in three hours. He’d been asleep for four. He was about to be on a plane for fourteen. Why _the fuck_ had they gone out last night? Before an international flight? A _long_ international flight? He was thirty-six years old, not eighteen. _Actually, an eighteen year old would’ve made better decisions than you did last night, Yusuf._ He was in no mood for his brain to be a smartass. Frankly, he was surprised it could – last night he’d dumped enough chemicals and booze into it to drown the damn thing.

Nicky shifted next to him with a little groan and Joe turned to look at him, feeling very suddenly like he might start crying. He had to _leave_. He had to leave Nicky, in a few hours. Sooner than that, really, he needed to be at the airport in like an hour. _Fuck._

“Joe?” Nicky murmured. His eyes were still closed.

“Yes, love?” He dropped a kiss on Nicky’s shoulder.

“We have to go soon, yes?”

“Unfortunately.”

He sighed and then rolled his body on top of Joe’s, straddling his hips, tucking his forearms next to his chest. It should have been comforting; the truth was that it just made him more acutely aware of what he was about to walk away from, and he didn’t even know for how fucking long. 

“I’ll miss this,” Nicky mumbled against his skin.

“I will too,” he said. _When will I see you again?_ The words stuck in his throat; unshed tears blocking their exit. Why did he have to be the one to bring it up? His head throbbed; his dehydrated brain crying out for water. Fuck, he felt like absolute shit. Emotionally beat down, tired, _sad._ But he had to know. “I could come visit in August,” he said.

“August will be difficult,” Nicky responded, nuzzling into his chest. “If the film is as good as I hope that it will be, we will be finalizing submission to the festivals. And you will be on every late night show that will take you. We could have some time in March, I think. That is only two months from now.”

Joe sighed. “I’ll be filming in Atlanta in March.” 

Nicky laid a gentle kiss against Joe’s clavicle. “We’ll figure it out, Joe. I will be just a phone call away.” He rolled off Joe and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come on then. Go get a shower; I’ll make you an espresso.”

Joe did as he was told.

* * *

The plan was for them to walk to Nile’s hotel to meet her and then share a car to the airport. Nicky had initially offered to drive them, but his car, while deeply sexy, was also laughably impractical: It couldn’t actually fit all of their bags.

On the street, as Nicky closed the large wooden inner door and then locked the outer wrought iron door to his building, Joe seethed; a cocktail of panic, despair, nausea, the apocalyptic lack of dopamine in his skull because of last night’s ecstasy, anger at his own stupid decisions, at Nicky, for not…not asking him to stay. He recognized, vaguely, that the anger was irrational – he couldn’t stay, he had a life, and work, in America, and besides; he hadn’t forced the conversation either. But still. He should’ve _asked_.

He looked up to where the dawn was beginning to break overhead. He felt as if he’d stolen all of the happiness from himself, and that he would never get it back. He felt combustible with it.

Despite all of this, when Nicky turned and kissed him, he sighed into it, opened his mouth to grant Nicky entrance, as he always had. As he always would.

He heard the clicking of the camera before he saw it. Looking to his right, just a few feet away, he saw a wiry man with a large professional camera, snapping pictures of their embrace.

He had felt combustible, and here was the match.

He jerked away from Nicky and stalked towards the little man, who kept snapping away; each click ratcheting up his anger. He yanked the camera out of the man’s hands, recognizing as he did it, that he was making a mistake. Somehow, it only made him angrier. 

“What the fuck, man?” Joe shouted.

“That’s expensive,” the man replied calmly in English. He _was_ English. “I’d advise you to be careful with it.”

“Joe!” He felt a tug at his arm. Nicky had caught up to him. He ignored him.

“You want to explain what you’re doing?” Joe spat at the little man. God, he even _looked_ like a weasel; mismatched, uneven features and a stupid little smirk.

“My job,” he responded. “Now, would you please return my possessions?” 

He wanted to hit him, he looked so patronizing. “Your _job_ is to record stranger’s private moments?”

“Joe,” Nicky said, with a warning tone. Joe pulled his arm out of Nicky’s grasp.

“Yes,” the little man said, “and I’m paid very well for it.” 

“You selfish piece of shit –“

“Joe, _stop_!” Nicky’s sharp tone startled Joe out of his all-encompassing rage. Nicky stepped in between him and the little weasely motherfucker. “Your name?” Nicky was calm – genial, even.

“Merrick,” the other man drawled. “Daily Post.”

The name clicked in Joe’s brain; he remembered a scandal from a few years ago – they’d hacked a handful of celebrity’s phones and email accounts and had the absolute hell sued out of them. They were ruthless, for a story. Panic rose in him as Nicky and the pap spoke. They were going to publish the pictures. His parents would see. _Everyone_ would see. He’d have to defend himself against the invasion of his privacy, against his sexuality, for sleeping with his co-star, _fuck_ what had he been thinking, fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

He felt the camera being taken from him. Nicky. He let it go and watched blindly as it was given back to Merrick.

“Come, Joe.” Nicky said calmly, leading him by the elbow back to his building. “I will deal with this later. You have a flight to catch.”

 _A flight to catch?_ He was again suddenly, blindingly furious. They’d just been caught, their love life about to be broadcast to the world, Joe’s sexuality thrust into the spotlight through _no choice of his own,_ and _that’s_ what he thought of? Joe leaving? He could _scream._

He realized that his hands were shaking as he was led into the building’s vestibule, as the heavy wood door was shut behind them. 

“What the _fuck_ , Nicky?” he hissed. “’You’ll deal with this later?’”

“Yes,” Nicky replied mildly. He was so _infuriatingly_ calm. He stared Nicky straight in his clear, pale eyes, aware that his own burned with anger. Anger like he hadn’t felt in – ever, maybe. 

“So, what, you’re just going to let him publish those pictures?”

“No.” He stared back at Joe, his assessing eyes now sharp and cold. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because _everyone will know_!” he hissed back.

“And that would be a problem?”

“Yes! Yes it would be a fucking problem!” He felt – he didn’t entirely understand how he felt – but it was horrible. He had to get it out. “I’m not you, I can’t just… risk everything! My parents, my career. And you shouldn’t be _okay_ with this!” 

“I am not ‘okay’ with this, Joe!” he finally snapped back, and Joe felt a sick sense of satisfaction. He’d broken through the ice. “And you might be risking your career, or your parents – though I must say, based on everything that you have told me about them, that seems doubtful _–_ but you’re certainly risking something right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” he sneered. “What’s that?”

“ _Me.”_

 _Nope,_ he thought. _He doesn’t get to do that_. “So, what, you’ll stop loving me if I don’t come out?”

His eyes were hard, his jaw set. “Yes. I will stop loving you if you don’t come out. I cannot be a secret again, Joe.”

And just like that, his anger was gone. In its place – fear, anxiety, and above all, dread. _You’ve fucked up._ _Oh, you’ve fucked up bad._ He reached for Nicky but he flinched away. “Don’t _touch_ me,” he spat.

“Nicky, please. I’m sorry.”

“No. You have been touching me and touching me, and I – I _believed you_. That you would love me in the open.”

“I _do_ love you in the open.”

He was shaking his head, looking away, so obviously in pain, and it broke his heart. “No. I understand it now. I have been a secret. No one knows you here, do they? No one cares. If we’d been in America, I would be stashed away, wouldn’t I?” 

Joe shook his head, his entire body vibrating with uncertainty and panic. Why had he gotten so _angry?_ It had been irrational. Stupid. How could he fix this? When he spoke, his voice sounded thin and frightened. “No, that’s not true Nicky, I’ve been basically out for years –“

“No you haven’t,” he interrupted. He sounded hard, unyielding, like a stranger. “None of your exes have been famous have they? You’re able to hide them. They don’t draw attention.” Again, Joe reached for Nicky but he stepped away, looking disturbed. “You told me once that you’ve fallen in love too easily, in the past. But I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone. Because if you truly loved someone, you would be proud of it.”

He knew, then, exactly how badly he’d fucked up. “Nicky, please. I’m not like Andrei.”

Nicky froze, and then cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “How?”

“What?”

“ _How_ are you not like Andrei? Please, tell me.”

“I’m going to come out!”

“Are you? Forgive me if I don’t believe you. After last night, when those American women recognized you, and today’s little outburst? And you never told Nile - your best friend - about us, because she is also your agent. Don’t deny it. ”

Joe just stared at him. Nicky was…right. He had been a fucking coward. But he wasn’t going to continue to be - he was going to come out. He _was._

“You should go,” Nicky said, with bitter finality. “You have a flight to catch.” He opened the door and gestured for Joe to leave. Feeling more defeated than he ever had in his entire life, Joe picked up his bag and walked out the door. Nicky didn’t follow him.

“I’m sorry, Nicky,” Joe said quietly, once he got to the other side of the entrance. He turned back to look at him.

“I am sure that you are,” Nicky responded, ice in his words.

“I love you,” Joe whispered, barely loud enough for his own ears to hear.

Nicky looked him over with impeccable condescension and shut the door in his face.

* * *

A few hours later, and a few miles above Iceland, Joe finally broke down, and cried. Nile held him. It didn’t help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😬


	21. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the wonderful Marivan for her feedback and encouragement - sorely needed this chapter.
> 
> A quick note on comments. I appreciate every single comment this fic receives, because it means that you’re invested, and that honestly means the world. I won’t be responding to comments on the last chapter, but thank you for voicing your thoughts and feelings.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

When the door shut behind Joe, Nicky dug his phone out of his pocket with shaking hands and called Andy. He told her about their run in with Merrick and asked that she and Copley’s people run interference on it. She was irritated, of course. (“Nicky, I am _too fucking hungover_ to deal with this shit,” she sighed. “Please,” he said, and something in his voice must have given her pause. “All right,” she responded. “Consider it dealt with. How are you feeling, by the way?” His response, “I feel like I’ll never be happy again”, made her laugh. “Tell me about it,” she chuckled. As it turned out, his answer was also a perfectly acceptable response to the cataclysmic emotional comedown the day after taking ecstasy.)

Then he’d lit a cigarette, walked up the stairs to his flat, and gotten on with his life.

* * *

All through the rest of the long winter and spring, he focused on the film. The rough cut was completed by early March, the final print locked in by April. In early May, Nicky had a few painful days of ADR, re-recording pieces of dialogue that hadn’t been captured well enough on set. Those were perhaps the worst days; locked in a recording studio, watching scenes from the film on screen, watching himself and Joe as the sound engineers looked on, putting love into his voice for a man he wanted to hate.

He drowned himself in work through those cold months so that he could try to ignore his feelings, but of course they were always there. Resentment, guilt, regret, furious anger. 

Longing. 

When everything else burned away, it was longing – sharp and sweet – that remained.

But he didn’t reach out, and neither did Joe. He’d expected him to. He wanted him to. 

He hated him for weeks. Hated him for giving up, for not calling him and begging for forgiveness, for turning his back and walking away, for his _cowardice_. Joe hadn’t fought. Some part of Nicky had expected him to _fight_ , but he hadn’t – he’d just left him behind. The latest in a long line of people to do so, stretching all the way back to his infancy.

But that wasn’t what hurt the most. It wasn’t the feeling of abandonment. It was the betrayal. He’d handed Joe his still bruised heart and had trusted him to keep it safe, and at the first test of that trust, he’d failed.

Andy told him that she was surprised at how well he seemed to be taking it.

Booker brought him a few bottles of wine and downloaded a dating app onto his phone while he wasn’t paying attention. Told him that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone.

Quynh held his hand in hers and gently reminded him that Joe was a good man, and that coming out was a huge step, and that – perhaps – Nicky could have handled himself a little differently. That this had been a test for the both of them, not just Joe.

Throughout those long months, the fight was always with him, making itself constantly known with little needling reminders - flashes in his head as he tried to get on with his life. The thing he couldn’t erase, no matter how hard he tried, was the way Joe had reached for him after he said he wouldn’t love him, and the look on his face. After months of seeing Joe’s eyes when he closed his own, he could finally acknowledge that he had seen the regret and fear in those soft brown eyes even then, but he hadn’t _stopped_. Instead he’d ground Joe’s face into his own anger, _punishing_ him for - for what? Not being happy about having pictures of an intimate moment taken by a pap? 

And so, slowly, Quynh’s calmly worded statement eventually worked itself into his system like an infection, the truth of it - that maybe they were both in the wrong here - finally beginning to overwhelm his anger. 

In June there were meetings with Netflix marketing execs to discuss the awards push. They were pleased with the final cut – quite pleased– and wanted to take it along the same meandering path that _Roma_ had taken to the Academy Awards a few years before. They would present it at the festivals: Venice in August, Toronto in September, New York in October. If well received, release it into a few Netflix–owned theaters for sixty days starting in November so that it could meet the labyrinthine rules that would allow it to qualify for the Oscars. He was happy about that, but not as happy as he felt he could have been.

He considered quitting smoking. Didn’t. Played guitar, perfected croissants, read. Began writing a screenplay. Eventually, he managed to forget his heartbreak for minutes at a time.

* * *

On the afternoon of July 8, the letter arrived. He was wiping down the concrete countertops in his kitchen, idly thinking about how oddly satisfying it was to watch the color of the water slowly fade from dark to light grey as it dried, when he heard the hinges of the old brass post in his front door squeak, followed by the soft flop of mail to the floor. Throwing the sponge in the sink, he’d come around the corner and scooped up the delivery, his pulse immediately spiking when he saw the striped blue and red envelope, the amount of stamps, and the delivery address. He sat on his sofa and stared at it for a long few minutes, as if it were a bomb that might go off at any time if handled incorrectly. 

_So that is what Joe’s handwriting looks like_. It was looping, edging towards cursive, and neat. 

He leaned it against the antique brass elephant figurines on his coffee table – gifts from Andy from a few years back – and then tried to ignore it for the rest of the day. He did a load of laundry, made poolish for the ciabatta he planned to make the next morning, met Andy and Quynh for dinner. They discussed their trip to Venice for the festival in just a few weeks, how hellishly hot it would be, and what they’d be wearing to sweat in for various photocalls.

(Quynh had cut a _look_ over at Andy before casually asking Nicky if he’d spoken to Joe. “No,” he’d responded. “But he’s reached out?” she clarified. “No,” he’d said, taking a sip of his wine, and said nothing more. Quynh got the hint. Andy just looked on with raised eyebrows.)

When he got home, the moonlight shone a sparkling, dreamy spotlight on the letter. _Open me,_ it whispered to him, and with four glasses of wine in his system, he was finally powerless to resist its call.

He sat in the middle of the sofa, instantly recalling their first kiss, how Joe had touched him so perfectly from the beginning – so greedy and commanding and – _no._

He picked up the envelope, feeling unaccountably nervous, and felt its weight. There were at least a few pieces of paper folded inside. He delicately slid the flap open, and then unfolded its contents. A page of text – black ink against white unlined paper, the same curling handwriting from the front of the envelope – and some sketches. He set the letter aside and looked through the drawings first. 

A page full of black and white hands; in repose, in action. Palms curled around a mug, fingers plucking at guitar strings, blunt nails digging into skin. He glanced at his own hand holding the letter, recognized the lines and shades of it on the sheet. The next page was unmistakable – his own eyes staring back at him, over and over, different expressions somehow rendered with minute changes to the crinkles in the corner of his eyes, the lift of his brows.

A sound rattled through him then, brittle and shaking; squeezed from his chest. Here was proof of Joe’s attention. He’d _seen_ him. How had this gotten so fucked up?

He put the pages aside and turned his attention to the letter. _Okay,_ he thought, with another shaking breath. He began to read.

> _Dear Nicky,_
> 
> _I hope you’re doing well._
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _It’s taken me weeks to write this letter. Months, really. I thought about calling a thousand times, but something always stopped me. Pride, I guess. My own confusing feelings. Maybe the lingering knowledge that I’d see you again soon, no matter what. Maybe that’s why you haven’t reached out either._
> 
> _With Venice now looming, I have one question for you: Nicolo, ya amar - We really fucked up, didn’t we?_
> 
> _I know that I fucked up. I knew it while it was happening, and I tried to stop myself – fingers scrabbling on a cliff’s edge – but gravity and my own terror got the better of me in the end. I’ll admit to what you accused me of, that I was only able to be so comfortable with you in public because we were away from America. I’m so sorry for that, and I’m so sorry that I hurt you. If there’s any takeaway from this letter, please let it be that. All I ever wanted was to make you feel loved._

Long unshed tears percolated, a pressure in his chest tightening like a vise. He squeezed the bridge of his nose against them.

> _We were always so good at honest communication – though maybe that’s stupid to say, considering what happened - and I always felt like I understood you in some innate way. Like I knew what you would find funny or interesting, when I should push or pull back. What you wanted in bed. Most especially, that._
> 
> _But we didn’t talk about my leaving. Why? For myself, I’ll say bluntly: It was because I didn’t want to pop the bubble. I mean, it’s understandable, right? I was having an affair with a super hot Italian movie star, and he_ loved me _. (There’s a sentence I never in my wildest dreams thought that I’d write.) I’m pretty sure I would’ve done anything to keep it going, so of course, I didn’t want to bring up anything unpleasant. The irony that it’s part of why we fell apart is absolutely not lost on me._
> 
> _And with my – hopefully not too presumptuous – knowledge of you, I’d guess you never brought it up for similar reasons._
> 
> _So before we even saw the pap that morning, I was already a fucking mess. Sad that I had to leave you, scared of what it meant that we hadn’t hammered out dates to see each other again, angry – irrationally, I know – that you hadn’t made some grand romantic gesture and asked me to stay with you._
> 
> _And honestly? I was_ reeling _from day after ecstasy depression. I’m sure you were too. It’s not an excuse for the fight of course, but it is a reason._
> 
> _So when I saw that little man, and he was so condescending and uncaring – I just… snapped._
> 
> _Which leads me to another thing I wasn’t crystal clear about: I was always planning to publicly come out when I got back home. Since practically the first time we kissed, I knew I’d do it._
> 
> _But that morning, I panicked. I was hungover to fuck and back, and_ scared _. I thought of my parents, finding out I’m into men from seeing me making out with one. How my career would be affected. Furious too, that telling people the way_ I _wanted to tell them, was going to be taken out of my hands. Maybe that more than anything else, really. And I have to say – all of those feelings seem extraordinarily reasonable._
> 
> _In the spirit of our lost honest communication, I also have to say: I wish that you’d trusted me, when I told you I’d be coming out._

The wish was what ultimately forced the sob out. With a trembling hand he wiped away the tears clouding his vision and forced himself to keep reading.

> _Though - because you’ve always been honest with me - I know how you felt about being a secret. And because I know this, I’m sure that you reacted the way you did because you thought I was like your ex, that I’d break your heart because I was functionally in the closet._
> 
> _Unfortunately, I guess that in some ways, you were right._
> 
> _But, Nicky – if I can still call you that - I hope that you believe me when I say that you didn’t - you don’t- deserve to be a secret._
> 
> _I meant every word I ever said to you. Every one._
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _I hope that you believe me. I hope that we can start again._
> 
> _I’ll see you soon._
> 
> _\--Joe_
> 
> _p.s. Thank you, by the way, for whatever producer magic you and Andy pulled to keep the photos from being published. I can only assume that Andy went after him, and that Merrick is now handcuffed to a pipe in a basement somewhere, ne’er to see the sunlight again. Poor bastard._

A choking laugh bubbled out through his tears. _God, I’ve missed him_ , he thought, followed quickly by, _I’ve been such an asshole,_ and _he hopes that we can start again_. He fumbled for his phone. He’d call him. It was 2200 – he did some quick calculations – which made it mid afternoon in California. He quickly pulled up Joe’s contact info (never deleted, of course) and saw the photo he’d attached to it before he’d left. He paused. 

It was the picture Nile had taken of the two of them in the piazza. Joe’s grin – that dimple… the pressure in his chest tightened.

He couldn’t call him now. He needed to process. He needed to be sober. He’d reach out, but – not yet.

In the end, he didn’t do anything for a week. Didn’t write back, didn’t call. Didn’t tell any of his friends. He did read the letter dozens of times, imagined where Joe had been when he’d written it, what he’d been wearing, what he’d been thinking. He allowed himself to cry, and, once the floodgate was opened, he did it some more. He found himself contemplating the photo of the two of them, from that perfect day in January. He zoomed in on Joe’s face, on his own, tried to remember exactly how it had felt, to have the sun shining on the back of his neck and Joe’s hand in his. Proof of what they’d felt for each other, in his palm.

And so, the next Friday evening, aided by the late afternoon sunlight, a warm breeze rustling Joe’s sketches and letter on the coffee table, and absolutely no alcohol, he picked up the phone, and called him.

* * *

On the other side of the world – though a few thousand miles closer than Nicky expected him to be – Joe ignored the phone buzzing in his pocket and took a nervous sip of his mint tea.

He was sitting with his parents in the high-ceilinged living room of their house. A fan spun furiously above them, the soft _whoosh_ of the blades cutting through the unbearably humid air pretty much the only sound.

His mother squeezed his father’s knee. Their dog – a very good boy named Ringo – whined a little, looking from human to human with something like concern.

He focused on his mother’s face.

“How long have you known, habibi?” she asked. He set his tea down on the coffee table and sighed. “Coaster, Yusuf,” she said reflexively, and Joe couldn’t help but huff out a laugh. _Some things never change_. She caught the look on his face and smiled a little. “It is very hot, and it will leave a mark quickly.”

“I know, Mom, I know.” He pulled a coaster over and set it underneath the drink, which was already sweating. “Sorry.” _Time for some honesty._ “I’ve known since I was a kid,” he continued.

Her lips squeezed into a thin line and she crossed and then uncrossed her legs again. Bit at her nail. “And this is why you’ve never been in a relationship?”

“I’ve been in relationships, you just…haven’t known about them,” he sighed.

“And you are – you’re certain?”

“I am.”

Her glance cut over to the corner of the room, where a rarely used fireplace stood. He followed her gaze as she looked up to the mantle, where family pictures sat in a point of pride. Joe in a cap and gown at graduation, clean shaven and smiling in the sun; all three of them posing on a bridge in Amsterdam on a trip to visit his aunt and uncle; himself as a baby, curled up on his dad’s chest while he napped on the couch; five year old Joe and his childhood dog Arrow sitting on the front porch together, her paw on his lap, a glass of lemonade at his side. He’d had a good childhood. A great one, really.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she finally asked, her words quiet and somehow small.

He sucked in a shaky breath, willed himself not to let the threatening tears overwhelm him. 

“Because he was scared,” his father said. His first words since he’d dropped the bomb on them. Joe nodded. A few tears escaped and traced a path down his cheek before hitting his beard. He furiously wiped them away. His father stared at him, and the silence stretched. His stomach twisted itself into knots. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t tell us,” he finally said, softly. 

His mother leaned forward and put her hand on Joe’s knee. “We wanted you to be able to tell us, Yusuf, but we… we’ve actually known for a few weeks now.”

“I - what?” he asked – of all of the things he’d expected them to say this certainly wasn’t one of them.

“You don’t think I have a Google alert set for your name, Joe?” she asked through a teary smile. “I saw your routine on Vulture.”

And of course, after that, it was impossible to hold back the tears any longer. She ducked over to his chair and wrapped him in her arms. “My only son, the idiot,” she cooed against his hair, and he laughed. 

* * *

When Joe had first gotten back to Los Angeles in January, guilt laid itself heavily upon him like a second skin, suffocating and thick. His new mantra – _you fucked up, you fucked up –_ was his constant companion, Nicky’s final words to him a flogger, flaying him open. 

Nile stayed with him for days after they got back, and on the morning of the fourth, as he’d furiously vomited out his feelings at her for the hundredth time, she’d sighed deeply, laid her head against the butcher block countertop and said, “Joe. Stop.”

He stopped. 

“I love you, man,” she mumbled against the countertop before turning to look up at him, “but I cannot listen to this any more.” She stood and crossed her arms, tilted her head up at him. “You fucked up. He fucked up. You _both_ fucked up. Now what are you gonna do about it?”

He slumped against the counter next to her and sighed, a deep, powerful exhale that felt like it came from his fucking _soul_. “I don’t know Nile,” he finally said.

“Yes you do,” she responded. She quickly hugged him and then stepped back slightly, her dark eyes catching his own. “So let’s get to work.”

As it turned out, they didn’t really have to do much work at all.

The night of The Incident - as Joe would later call it in his head – was like any other. He was backstage at The Hayworth at one of his friends’ hosted nights, sitting on one of the shitty black leather couches that were seemingly held together solely by duct tape and hope, when his friend Jason pressed an old-fashioned into his hand and said, “Get up there man. Heather’s late and we’ve got fifteen minutes to kill.”

So he’d walked out onto the brightly lit stage and set his drink on the stool in the middle of it. He could see nothing beyond the edge, but he knew there were two hundred odd-people waiting for him to make them laugh.

“So we’ve got fifteen minutes to kill,” he said into the microphone, hearing his amplified voice coming from the speakers. “Luckily I’m really fucking good at talking.” He laughed a little. “So what do you guys want me to talk about?”

There was a brief silence, and then someone from the back yelled, “Something you regret!” He laughed, startled by the request, and the rest of the audience did too.

“Something I regret? Jesus. We’ve only got fifteen minutes man, I’d need hours for that.” There were a few amused chuckles. “Yeah, sure, I can amuse you with my pain. Well, to start with, I’ll introduce myself. My name is Joe Al-Kaysani.”

There were a few “woos!” of recognition from the audience.

“Yeah, some people probably know me from my last special, _Muhammad in Suburbia_.” He crossed his arms and started pacing a little, back and forth, as he let the words come out of him. “For a while there I was actually kind of famous from it, which was weird, but, you know, not terrible. It was kind of cool to be famous, honestly – don’t believe celebrities who complain about it. Well, I mean, I guess it could be kind of shitty if you’re _too_ famous, but hopefully you’re rich enough that it doesn’t really matter.” He sighed. “ _Anyways_ , the special: It was good, if I do say so myself. Critics called me honest and unflinching, and all that shit, which is _deeply_ ironic, really, considering my biggest regret.” He took a deep drink and closed his eyes, tasting the bourbon on his tongue. “Which is that I’ve always been in the closet.” He opened his eyes again, glad he couldn’t see everyone staring back at him. “Because I’m gay.” A few people laughed nervously. “I’m not joking. I really am. One hundred percent into dudes. Always have been, always will be. Tell your friends. Record this; I don’t care anymore. Fuck it.” 

After that, he didn’t entirely remember what he said - too much adrenaline - but the next day he watched the video of the set that _comnerd69_ uploaded to Reddit and thought that it was - if he did say so himself - really fucking good.

And apparently his initial judgement was right, because over the course of the next weeks and months, and eventually years _,_ the set from that night would be compared to Tig Notaro’s stunning “Hello, I have cancer,” or Hannah Gadsby’s earliest workshopped portions of _Nanette_. Joe would always be complimented by the comparison but uncomfortable with it – what was his story compared to cancer or assault? – but he would eventually understand. It was the unexpectedness of the thing.

The day after The Incident, Nile sent him an offer from Netflix for another stand up special. He accepted it, then called his parents, asked them if they were available for a visit from their favorite son in mid July. They were. He booked his flight.

In all of that time, as winter bled into spring and then became summer, it would go like this: First, guilt would attack him – that he hadn’t forced a conversation about seeing Nicky again, that he’d never come out in the first place, that he’d reacted so badly to the pap – but be followed by anger – why didn’t Nicky force the conversation?, Nicky knew he wasn’t out and didn’t push him on it, Nicky was kind of an asshole too, for laying down that _fucking_ ultimatum – which would lead to sadness – he missed his dry wit and making him laugh, the way it felt to touch him, if only they’d had more time – and then guilt would come roaring back in.

It was a never ending cycle, an ouroboros of bullshit, and it was _exhausting_.

In June, his therapist – god bless her – suggested that he write a letter to Nicky. Not to send it – just to purge his feelings. Get it down on paper. So he purged them. And he stared at the results. And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that a letter might be just the right thing – it would give both of them more distance, while still being a step forward. He could send it, and he wouldn’t know when it would arrive, wouldn’t be constantly refreshing his email, or forcing a conversation with a phone call. 

So he wrote Nicky a letter, on his best paper, with his favorite pen. It was a gentle, hesitant olive branch, extended with hopeful, cautious fingers. 

* * *

Back in his childhood bedroom – which his mother had converted into a yoga studio the _second_ he’d moved out – he sat in the dark at the built in window seat, with headphones in his ears, curled around his phone, and opened up the video.

He’d watched it so many times, memorized the sights and sounds so well he could practically conjure them from thin air. The way Nicky’s face and hair jolted to the side with each slap, the obscene wet squelch of Nicky taking him down to the root, the broken sounding gasp when Nicky came.

He always turned it off after that – he couldn’t face what came next. But he’d missed a call from Nicolo di Genova that afternoon, and his phone had a voicemail asking him to call back soon, so this time, he let the video continue.

_The way you looked after, I felt like…like I’d put more oxygen into your lungs. Does that make sense?_

_Like you let me breathe easier? Yes. That makes sense. I’ve thought that before, when we are together._

_I… I think I’m already in love with you._

_I think I’m already in love with you too._

He shut off his phone and let the darkness of the room envelop him as he laid his forehead against the warm glass. Looking up at the moon ( _ya amar)_ , listening to the gentle hum of cicadas and the murmurs of his parent’s quiet conversation somewhere in the house, Joe smiled and allowed himself to hope for the first time in a long time – maybe it would be all right.


	22. Venice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a while friends, work has been bananas and exhausting.
> 
> As always, a shout out to Marivan, without whom this fic with be like...30% shittier. She's a great writer, by the way, and you should read her work! Her most recent fic is a soulmate goose AU (!!!!) that is exactly as cute and silly as it sounds. [Here's her TOG stuff. Read it! Thank me later.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marivan/pseuds/Marivan/works?fandom_id=44512552)

Venice didn’t feel real.

He knew it was of course, knew that it had been sparkling in the Mediterranean for over a thousand years, but his first thought upon seeing the city from the boat that had picked him up at the airport was that the city looked like a particularly expensive movie set. Here were the baroque windows and gondolas and worn down brick and ornate bridges that indicated to the viewer that they were looking at Venice – no further context would be necessary. When the boat – _a boat, fucking wild_ – dropped him off at his hotel on the Lido, the sense of unreality only heightened further as Cate fucking Blanchett walked by him wearing a cream colored suit. She was very tall.

He declined the offer for help with his bag from the concierge at the docks – it wasn’t heavy anyways; he hadn’t actually brought that much, most of his clothes would be arriving with his stylist – and walked along the wooden planks to the barrier wall and the lushly manicured gardens of the salmon-pink Hotel Cipriani beyond.

Striped blue and white umbrellas dotted the grounds, hiding their impossibly glamorous patrons and their murmured conversations from the harsh midday sun. Joe heard the sound of water everywhere; the splash of the ocean against the gently rocking boats behind him, the tranquil gurgling as it poured from the jug of an art deco statue, the soft plinking of ice in cocktails. He breathed in deeply through his nose, smelling the salt on the air and the gentle perfume from the gardens, and thought, _I could fucking get used to this._

He thought it again when the woman at the front desk offered him a glass of limoncello – which he gratefully accepted - and then again when he walked into his room. It was bathed in light – that particular shining bright light that only comes from being so near to the sea – and tastefully decorated in cool tones of blue, cream, and gold. The emerald and kelly greens of the garden peeked through the tall windows. The bathroom was basically all shining white marble.There was also a little balcony, and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the coffee table. A note that said, _Welcome to Venice! – Your friends at Netflix._

He took another sip of his limoncello. _Yeah,_ he thought _, I could definitely get used to this._

* * *

He and Nicky ( _Nicolo? Nico? What am I supposed to call him now?_ ) had spoken about Venice a bit - the film and festivals being one of the only neutral topics they could easily discuss in their two laughably stilted phone conversations over the past month - so he knew that he would be arriving the same day as Joe and Nile. He’d be lying if he said that knowledge wasn’t at the front of his mind as he’d showered and dressed that afternoon, as he’d fussed over his hair and beard in the mirror. What if Nicky – Nicolo - was in the lobby when he went down to meet Nile? Would he see him in a few minutes? He hoped he would. He dreaded that he might. Told himself he probably wouldn’t. 

He still had no idea what he would say to him, or how he’d feel when he saw him. He’d missed him, but he’d resented him. Loved him, but had survived without him. And their phone calls had been no help at all - stifling and loaded with way too many things obviously unsaid, uncomfortable in a way Joe had barely experienced since he’d first learned how to make people laugh.

Honest communication, he reckoned that was the key. They’d always worked well when confronting an issue head on, their problems had arisen from _not_ talking about things. And Joe was nothing if not completely honest, now that the whole “being gay” thing was out of the bag. So, he’d just...be honest.

He headed out right at three, taking a deep calming breath as the door snicked shut behind him. Then, down the hall and two flights of stairs, through the lobby and out the double doors towards the pool, which glittered in the sunlight. He thought, _this place is classy as absolute fuck_ as he put on his sunglasses and looked out over the manicured lawn. And that’s when he saw him.

He was leaning against a tree, looking down at his phone and smiling at whatever was on the screen.

It had been cold and grey, the morning he’d left him. The mood had perfectly matched the weather. Now, it was sunny and hot and sweet smelling, and Nicolo di Genova was _smiling,_ and he was just a few feet away. He wanted to run to him, wanted to hide before he saw him. 

He began walking in his direction, cutting across the grass.

Nicky looked different. His hair was a little shorter and parted to the side, the ends barely tucked behind his ears. Gone was the mustache; in its place was heavy scruff and an earring in each ear. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt.

He watched as Nicky put his phone into his pocket and dug out a cigarette, put it to his lips. Pulled out a lighter. Joe was close enough to hear the snick of the wheel when he finally looked up and saw him.

Those were the same verdigris eyes, calm and determined. The same eyebrows pinching together briefly and then raising in recognition. The same beauty mark and mouth. The same lips, which he’d imagined a thousand times, remembering how they’d stretched into a smile and around his cock, dreamed of their whispered pleas and wry jokes. 

Just now, those lips dropped open slightly in surprise. The hand holding his unlit cigarette dropped to his side. “Joe,” he said.

“Hi,” he responded. They said nothing else for long seconds.

“How are you?” Nicky finally asked.

“Fine. You?”

“Fine.”

 _God, help me, this is fucking awkward,_ he thought a little desperately. It was like they’d never met before, let alone done…all of the things they’d done. “This is weird,” Joe finally said, pleased when Nicky’s lips quirked up a bit. 

“It is.” His stare was intense now, some emotion burning through them, and Joe felt his gaze like a brand. He fought a shiver from the look alone. _Fuck_. “It’s nice to see you,” Nicky murmured, lightly touching Joe’s forearm as he said it. All of the longing and lust of the past seven months rose in his skin to meet it, and this time, he was powerless to resist the shudder that ran through him. _Fuck_ , he thought again.

He swallowed, emotion a lump in his throat; difficult to talk past. _Honest communication_ , he reminded himself. _Tell him the truth._ “It’s… it’s nice to see you too.”

“Can we talk?” Nicky asked quietly.

“Of course.” 

Nicky pointed to a little table for two that was situated right next to the lagoon, a question in his eyes. “Perfect. Just give me one minute to text Nile – I’m supposed to be meeting her here soon.”

Nicky nodded in agreement and left him to walk over to the table. Joe studied Nicky’s broad shoulders and strong back as he walked away, remembering its sinuous lines and heavy muscles, the way he moved under his hands… His eyes traveled lower. _And he’s still got a great ass._ He hid a guilty smirk, thinking _still just the truth,_ as he pulled out his phone and texted Nile, _Ran into Nicky. Give me ten?_

She immediately responded with, like, a dozen of the little side-eye emojis and then a thumbs up. He put his phone away and wandered over to the table, sitting on the chair across from Nicky, waiting.

It took him a few seconds, but Nicky finally stopped looking out over the lagoon and met Joe’s eyes. “I have thought about this so much, and now I find that I’m not sure what to say.” He gave a tight smile. 

“In that case, I can start,” Joe said, with a deep breath, feeling like his chest was exposed, his heart pounding hard for the world to see. “I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows rose, relief pure and plain on his face. “I am too,” he quickly responded.

“I shouldn’t have panicked the way I did –“

Nicky interrupted him. “No. No, that was a valid reaction. You were scared, and I should have trusted you, I should have…calmed you. I just made it worse.” 

“Maybe, but I get why you got so upset. I was literally doing exactly what your asshole ex did.”

“Not literally. _You_ didn’t cheat on me and get married three months after you dumped me. You did not have a spread in Italian Vogue about how happy you are.”

Joe huffed out a laugh. “Low bar.”

“Perhaps,” Nicky said with a wry smile, looking out over the lagoon. “And this will just prove that point further, but you also…” Joe looked back at him, just in time to see Nicky’s throat bob with a heavy swallow. His eyes flicked up to Joe’s before his lashes lowered against the darker skin under his eyes. When they opened again, those ever changing irises were impossibly green, and shiny. “You also held my hand and kissed me in public.”

Joe’s heart turned over in his chest, fresh guilt flooding him. That was a fucking low bar indeed. “I wanted to. Anyone who’s with you should want to. I’m sorry you haven’t had that before.”

Nicky nodded and wiped his hand over his eyes with a tight smile. “Thank you. But I hadn’t had it before - perhaps that explains my behavior? I panicked, and I lashed out, and I’m just...sorry. I’m sorry, Joe.”

He turned that around in his head, remembering that morning, the hangover, the terrible panic. Cast his thoughts back further, to better memories; nuzzling against Nicky's neck as he slept in Joe's arms, the burst of joy when he coaxed out one of those rare wide smiles or a bright, happy laugh, the feeling of Nicky’s lips against his. “It’s okay,” Joe said, the words surprising him a little. It was. Nicky was sorry, and Joe was too, and it was just one really _really_ shitty morning in a sea of happy ones. “It’s okay,” he said again. “That was a terrible fucking day, but there were so many good ones before it.” 

“There were,” Nicky agreed.

“I hope I didn’t fuck everything up.”

“You didn’t, I don’t think. Hopefully I did not either. It’s like you said, it was one day out of many. It was painful for some time, but the good memories were still there after the anger disappeared. I was reminded of them most especially after I received your letter. It was lovely, by the way. Thank you for sending it.”

“Of course.” They smiled at each other, tentatively, and Joe felt hopeful and scared and… well, about a million other things. Too much, really. Joe was glad to still have his sunglasses on - his emotions were always too fucking obvious. 

“I hope you can forgive me,” Nicky continued, hope in every syllable. It made Joe want to kiss away any bad thought he’d ever had.

“Forgiven. I hope you can forgive me too.”

“I believe that I already have. I am only sorry that it took me so long to realize it.” The regret was audible in his voice and a pang of sympathy lodged in his chest. When he said, softly, “But, I missed you, Joe,” that feeling in his chest became yearning as sharp and deeply felt as a blade between his ribs.

Joe watched as he dug his teeth into his bottom lip, an unconscious move to try and smother what he was feeling, Joe guessed. Was he feeling what Joe felt? He had to be - but, then again, Joe was a little shocked by the desire, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. He still wanted him, badly, with an urgency that he hadn’t dared to hope he’d be able to find so quickly. He wanted to run his tongue along that lip so he could feel the indentations left behind, to push his fingers past that soft barrier into the warm cavern of his mouth and watch his cheeks hollow as he sucked. 

But where did they go from here? He’d thought they might be able to reform a cautious sort of friendship here in Venice, but they’d already forgiven each other and the attraction was still so obviously there…

For now though: honest communication. “I missed you too Nic – can I still call you Nicky?”

“If you want to, yes,” Nicky said with a coy smile. “Though – perhaps not in interviews.”

“All right, I’ll try to remember that, Nicky.”

Nicky’s eyes snapped up to his when he said his name, and there _was_ desire in that gaze, it had to be. Suddenly he wasn’t thinking of the past, of what happened, of apologies or what-ifs; all he could think about was what could happen. His body warmed, the wickedness he’d found with Nicky rousing in him as they stared at each other. They could do that again. Another image flashed in his head: Nicky riding him, Joe’s hands clenching on his throat and in his hair, _fall in love with me_ tumbling from Nicky’s full lips.

He cleared his throat. _You shouldn’t,_ he told himself. _That’s how you got into this fucking mess._ The sex had been too good, it had hijacked…everything. He _liked_ Nicky; if they were going to give this a try again – and all signs certainly pointed to that being the case - they shouldn’t just fall into bed again. They’d been adults about their attraction before, they could do it again. _Course, you didn’t know how good it would be, when you were adults about it,_ his brain offered up. _Fuck off_ , he thought back.

He forcibly dragged himself away from the edge.

He realized there was one more thing they hadn’t discussed from the past. “I came out to my parents, by the way,” he finally said.

A genuine smile spread on Nicky’s face. “I am assuming that it went well?”

“Yeah. My mother – apparently she has a Google alert for my name – when I, um, came out, she found out about it just like everyone else, so my grand speech was kinda ruined. Fucking internet, right?” Nicky’s smile was gentler now, calming and soothing, and all of the other things Joe’d been missing from his life. He wanted to hold his hand, feel his dreamy warmth. He didn’t.

“Ah, yes, the stand up.”

“You’ve seen it?”

Nicky nodded. “Yes. Quynh practically forced me to watch it. She is very determined, and she loves you. She was tired of my moping, I think.”

Joe chuckled and Nicky smiled up at him through thick eyelashes. _He always loved to make me laugh_ , he thought. He looked out over the water towards St. Marks Square and sighed at that sobering thought. They’d once been so comfortable with each other and now they…weren’t. Not really. But maybe they could be again.

He watched the sparkling of the lagoon and realized that he was ready to stop examining what happened in the past, ready to put the apologies behind them. He wanted to think about what might lay ahead. Joe had no idea what that might be, so there was only one thing for it - one final push for honesty. “I said in the letter that I hoped we could start again. What...what did you think about that?” He turned and caught Nicky’s features soften at the question, watched the smallest lifting of his lips before he pressed them together.

“I liked it,” he whispered.

 _Oh, thank God._ “Yeah?”

He nodded, and then smiled, privately, like he had a secret he didn’t want to share. “Good, because I really want that too. But - we should -” Joe paused, it was surprisingly hard to be honest about this, so he decided to be blunt, no dancing around it, “- we should probably not have sex. Right? Just, get to know each other again, and see where it leads.”

“Are we to be adults about it again?” Nicky asked wryly.

“I think we should.” _Right? No. Wait. Yes._

“I think that is a good plan,” Nicky said, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. Joe smiled stupidly back, wondering if it was possible for him to actually float away, he felt so buoyant.

He realized suddenly that Nile would be here soon. They needed to talk about something less emotional, and he needed to get back onto solid ground.

“So, what are you doing the rest of the day?” he finally asked. It was inane, but safe. He did everything he could to ignore the slight blush high on Nicky’s cheeks.

Nicky looked away for a moment and swallowed. “Just relaxing here,” he responded after a few seconds. “It will be very busy starting tomorrow.”

Joe thought of the color-coded itinerary Nile had emailed to him – fully half of every day for the next week and a half parceled out into fifteen-minute increments. “Yeah. Who knew it would take 45 minutes to get me ready to go see a movie?”

Nicky huffed out a laugh. “Just be grateful that you are not a woman for this. Quynh has hours dedicated to it, every day.”

“And Andy?”

“She won’t be photographed as much, so less time.”

Joe hummed. Made sense. “Well, Nile and I have both never been to Venice, so we’re going to explore a bit in the city today, before things ramp up.” He spotted her from the corner of his eye, walking across the grass to meet them – casual in a white t-shirt and black jean shorts. “Speak of the devil,” he said, standing to greet her, thinking she was more like an angel of mercy to end this conversation, because if he were left alone with Nicky for much longer, whatever bullshit delusions he had about not immediately fucking him would disappear and they’d be right back where they’d been in January. _Which you should not do_ , _Joe,_ he reminded himself. 

He gave her a quick hug once she arrived. Behind him, he was aware of Nicky standing to greet her too. “Hello Nile,” he said, cautiously. Nile looked up at Joe, who smiled back at her, thinking _we’re okay, we’re more than okay, you can be nice to him._ Apparently she understood, because she turned to Nicky and smiled. “Hey Nico. How’ve you been?”

“Fine, thank you for asking. Busy. You?”

“The same,” she said.

Nicky stuffed his hands into his front pockets, very clearly broadcasting how uncomfortable he found the conversation to be. Joe watched the ropey muscles in his forearms and biceps shift under his skin. He wanted to bite them all over. Nicky would like that. Nicky caught his gaze and cocked his head to the side, looking quizzical.

He realized suddenly that they were standing in yet another awkward silence. Had he missed something? Shit.

“So…” Nile said, “we’re going to head on out. Nice seeing you Nico. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Nicky responded, with the smallest smile in Joe’s direction. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, I’m sure we will,” she said as she grabbed Joe’s arm to drag him away. “Bye!” she shot back over her shoulder. Once they were a few feet away she muttered, “Oh my god, you two.”

“What?”

“I’m legitimately surprised I didn’t catch you with his dick in your mouth.”

“Nile!”

“What? I felt like a voyeur, man, it was like I wasn’t even there. I could literally _see_ the sexual tension.”

“You talked to him! And you can’t _see_ sexual tension, it’s ethereal.”

“Uh huh,” she scoffed. Literally scoffed. “He barely looked at me. And you could _not_ have been more obviously staring at his arms, Joe.”

 _Shit._ “Do you think he noticed?”

They entered the cooler air of the lobby, navigating past chairs and people – _was that Louis Garrel?_ Yes, and he looked fucking good – as Nile laughed at him. “If he didn’t notice, he’s fucking blind.” 

They walked across the gardens towards the docks. “Well, I’ve decided I’m not going to sleep with him,” he said. Nile stopped walking in the middle of the path and turned to him, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows and narrowing her eyes and generally indicating that she very obviously did not believe him. She stared him down for a few long seconds, disbelief all over her face. “Well. Not yet anyways,” he finally mumbled, feeling suitably cowed.

“Uh huh,” she said triumphantly. “I give it three days, max.”

“Shut up,” Joe said as they climbed onto the boat, but there was absolutely no heat in it. He could last more than three fucking days. He _could._

* * *

The next afternoon at two on the dot, an army of women swept into his room for three of the next fifteen minute blocks in his day.

There was Puja, one of his stylist’s assistants who’d quickly charmed Joe back in Los Angeles with the endearing disconnect of being about four foot nine and having the mouth of a particularly rough sailor; Lizzie, a native Angelino who had the same tight curls as Joe and would be doing his hair; Sara (with no h, she’d made sure to tell him in her introduction and he always made sure to remember it) who was the tailor, and Nile.

Per Lizzie’s instructions, he’d showered and conditioned but had done nothing else to his hair. Per Puja’s instructions he hadn’t eaten a heavy meal that day. Per Nile’s instructions, he was to “shut up and not complain about how long it’s taking, Joe, forty five minutes is _nothing,_ and if you say anything about it taking too long, I’m forcing you to come with me the next time I get my braids done.” So he popped the complimentary bottle of champagne when they arrived, passed out glasses to everyone, and then shut up and let them get to work.

Forty-five minutes later, a very handsome version of Joe looked back at himself from the mirror. He wore a cochineal red suit over a black tuxedo shirt, black velvet loafers, and a black pocket square. His curls and beard had been tamed and moisturized. He turned to the side and checked out his ass.

“It’s still there,” said Nile’s reflection wryly. 

He shot a cheeky grin at her. “And still amazing.” He watched her roll her eyes.

“The suit’s good, right?” asked Puja. She and Sara were kneeling at his feet. They’d just had to make a last minute hem to the length of his pants.

“Yeah, it’s good. Not overly stuffy, but still classy, and my ass looks great. That’s really all I want out of clothes, so thanks for that.”

She smiled and got to her feet. “You got someone you’re trying to tempt with that ass? Some nice young man caught your eye?”

Nile’s reflection cocked a knowing eyebrow at him.

“Maybe,” he said. 

* * *

Walking the carpet for that evening’s premiere - a Park Chan-wook film that Joe was really looking forward to - was something close to dreamlike. Of course, he’d been to premieres before, but they were almost unanimously comedies or action, and he was there to support friends who’d worked on the project, and, frankly, after the shiny newness of _Muhammad in Suburbia_ had worn off, no one usually paid too much attention to him. That was not the case this evening. There was a wall of photographers from official outlets – though, blessedly, no reporters – and most of them seemed to know his name. Though the sun was still out, the flash of the bulbs was still intense. When he closed his eyes, the light remained, an imprinted corona under his eyelids.

At the end of the walk, underneath the zig-zagging mid-century white concrete awning of the Palazzo Del Cinema, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Quynh smiling up at him. 

“Quynh!” He opened his arms to give her a hug but she quickly stopped him with an upturned palm.

“I would love to give you a hug but my stylist would kill me,” she said quickly. Joe laughed, and turned the truncated hug into a deep bow. She gave him an ironic little curtsy and inclined her head as if she were a queen. She looked like one tonight. Her hair was parted down the middle and flowed long and straight down her back, looking impossible shiny. She wore a deep emerald green gown with a cape down to her feet, and what looked like the gross domestic product of some small country – Lichtenstein, maybe – in the sparkling diamond collar around her neck.

“Holy shit, Quynh,” he breathed, when his eyes fell on it.

“I know. Beautiful, isn’t it?” She preened for him, turning this way and that so he could see it sparkle.

He whistled. “Fucking gorgeous.”

“On loan from Harry Winston. It comes with its own bodyguard.” She pointed to a hulking white man standing a few feet away in a black suit. “I think that they are worried about a heist. Oceans Eight, you know.”

“Oh – that reminds me. I saw Cate Blanchett earlier!”

She smirked. “Look over your shoulder,” she whispered, indicating where he should look with her eyes. He glanced back. Cate fucking Blanchett stood about two feet from him, in an animated conversation with another woman he didn’t recognize. “She’s everywhere,” he whispered back to Quynh, with comically wide eyes.

She chuckled and took his arm, turning them to walk into the building. “I have missed you, Joe.”

“I’ve missed you too, Quynh. Ready for the big premiere?”

“As ready as I will ever be. I wish it was sooner - I want to get it over with.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be great. I can’t wait to see it.”

She looked up at him with a slightly cocked eyebrow. “It is rather explicit, remember. It might be a bit odd to see yourself...” She paused. “I understand that you and Nico have spoken?”

“We have. We’re okay, I think.”

She patted his hand. “Good.”

Quynh deftly navigated their way through the crowded lobby towards the three double doors that would lead them into the theatre. He realized Andy was their actual destination when he saw her leaning against the back wall, wearing a tailored black suit with a white blouse that was cut scandalously low. An emerald dangled from a thin chain at her sternum. Even from a few feet away he could tell she’d be towering over him because of some murderous looking five-inch heels. Between the height, her crossed arms, the icy blue-green stare, and shoes that could easily double as weapons, he began to feel very nervous. Andy was intimidating at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

“Hey Andy,” he said, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. “You look great.”

“You look okay,” she responded wryly, and Joe barked out a laugh despite his nervousness. Maybe because of it, really.

She smiled at his reaction, but it was tight. It softened when Quynh switched from Joe’s arm to hers. “You and Nicky patched things up?”

“I think so,” he responded.

“Good.” She looked over his shoulder. “Cause he’s coming over now.”

Joe turned just as Nicky arrived. He looked profoundly handsome in a navy suit, the color making his eyes slide on the scale back towards blue, and he smiled at Joe in such a way that he felt it in his chest, the soft warmth in it traveling from his heart into every artery and vein. _Jesus, what a fucking thought. Be cool, man._

“Hello everyone. Shall we?” Nicky asked. Andy and Quynh walked ahead as Nicky extended an arm so that Joe could precede him to the open door. “I like your suit,” he said. “The color - it’s good on you.”

Joe watched his lips as he said it, his cheeks warming as he remembered how much he’d fantasized about just _kissing him_ since he’d left Rome. “Thank you. Your suit is nice as well. I - ” _I love how it makes your eyes change to blue, like they suck up all of the pigment. I miss all of your colors._ “- like the navy,” he finished lamely.

There was a little hitch of Nicky’s lips as he fell into step next to Joe, heading into the theatre together. As they took their seats next to Quynh and Andy, Joe became profoundly aware of every empty particle of air in the scant inches between his and Nicky’s bodies, and how easy it would be to touch him. How easy it would be to slide his hand down Nicky’s chest to stroke his cock, grasp his hair in his other hand and pull his head back, make his neck arch. Set his teeth against the vein in his throat and bite him when he groaned because he’d have to be _quiet_. He closed his eyes, remembering the hungry way he’d looked at him when he’d said his name - maybe he’d just lean over and whisper it into his ear - _Nicky -_ just to remind him what he could do to him.

He didn’t do any of those things. The lights went down, and Joe forced himself to turn his attention to the film. He mainly succeeded. Mainly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments!! I'll be responding to them over the course of the next couple of days, but I figured, after a week and a half of waiting for this update, you'd prefer a new chapter to comment responses.


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